The Wise Ones
by nimruzir
Summary: They are Noldo and they are learned, gifted in the skills of the physical sciences and the arts, refined and graceful like no other. The Wise Ones, led by Elrond and Glorfindel, travel to the Greenwood to reciprocate Thranduil's invitation. Legolas and The Greenwood prepare for imperious Noldo. Second in The Wild and The Wise story arc.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Night had fallen once more upon the dark, foreboding forest, in spite of their best attempts at arriving before they would be forced to stop for another night. It was not an appetizing thought, and Lindir had said as much after a black bat had flown into his long, flowing hair at the camp fire the previous night.

The musician had yelped, and then abruptly stood as he flapped his hands around his head and stomped his feet. Galanor had laughed at the bard, rocking upon his makeshift tree branch bench beside the other guards, and Glorfindel had rolled his eyes in exasperation of the squeamish musician. Elrond, however, had simply sighed as he flicked his fingers at an oversized mosquito that had been annoying him for the last hour. He had no intention of being bitten by the thing, for he was unsure it would be poisonous – it certainly looked like it would be.

It was, perhaps, the eighteenth hour, yet their eyes already strained past their considerable limits in order to navigate their treacherous path, for the high bows were compact, knitted together at the tops, as if holding each other's hands for comfort before what lay below them. Their steeds stumbled and whickered uneasily and Elrond was becoming concerned, just as he knew Glorfindel was; another night upon the path in the company of Lindir was not a pleasant thought, but the distant stench of orc had him unnerved, and had deprived him of any appetite he had managed to work up.

Glorfindel' eyes sought Elrond, who sat upon his mighty black stallion, the very picture of a proud, warrior lord. Fully armored and battle ready, Elrond had expected to be met upon the path and guided into the city proper before now, and of course he had deigned to do so in the best possible Noldorin fashion, one Erestor would be most content with, had he been here.

Not for the first time on this trip, Elrond was relieved that Erestor had stayed behind to see to the matters of the valley in his own necessary absence. Erestor was surprisingly intolerant for a Chief Advisor, perhaps the elf's only short-coming, thought Elrond, for in every other way, he was a master of dialect and rhetoric. He was Elrond's indispensable right hand in matters of state, it really could have been no other way.

Elrond's eyes swiveled to Galanor, now but a simple warrior, stripped of his rank of lieutenant after the unpleasant affair with the Wild Ones. Glorfindel had, as punishment, condemned the elf to travel to Mirkwood, duly warning him that should a similar episode occur, he would be expelled from the Noldorin military all together, or even better, left to the wiles of the Woodland King's judgment. The shame would be too great for the arrogant elf to bear, and the chances of redemption were enticing, for beneath it all, Galanor was an asset to his army, or so Glorfindel claimed.

Elrond's mind wandered back to the briefing he had given the travellers on the eve of their departure.

"_The Noldor have a reputation to maintain, for we have advanced beyond other cultures, have written many books on lore and natural physics, poetry and prose unequalled. Yet that does not mean we should flaunt it, rather understand the Silvan society – alliance is close at hand, let us not ruin things as we once did, with petty arguments and intolerance…"_

It had been an inspiring talk, one his people had wanted to hear, for they had nodded and smiled and stood taller as their lord spoke. He then went on to explain what he knew of their venture…

Thranduil had proposed a meeting. It was short and it was simple. It seemed the Sindarin king wished to reestablish alliances and yet he had gone into no depth at all as to what was to be discussed. A test, perhaps, he had postulated. A test of trust that Thranduil lay at Elrond's feet, daring him to travel into troubled lands, to meet with a king of dubious alliance. He asked much, but Elrond had seen the wisdom of accepting.

Later, however, the Lord of the Valley had confided in Glorfindel that there was another reason why he had accepted, one that had Elrond perplexed. The king had said quite simply, that he had come into possession of something that belonged to Elrond.

Elrond, Glorfindel and Erestor had talked and wracked their brains for hours, wondering if some lost Noldorin treasure had been found in the bowls of some distant mountain. But it was to no avail – whatever it was that Thranduil had in his possession, was of an unknown origin, and not for the first time, the seed of doubt had sparked in their minds. Was it a _trap_?

Yet surely, after Legolas' visit to the Valley, the king would be positively predisposed, for the prince had been discovered and no harm had come to him, well, almost none.

'…_something has come into my possession, something that belongs to you…'_

Elrond shook his head to rid himself of the annoying phrase that would not leave his thoughts. Luckily, Glorfindel's powerful call to halt jolted him out of it and he turned to his general in askance.

"We can go no further," he stated simply, and after a moment, Elrond realized he was right. That was it then, another night in this forsaken land of strange beasts, gnarled trees and oversized, blood-sucking insects – not to mention squeamish bards who refused to braid their hair.

Yet fortune had other things in store for the Noldorin entourage, as the thunder of many hooves soon reached their ears, their warriors instantly alert upon their horses once more, their steady hands hovering over the pommels of their swords as their heads swiveled this way and that, trying to discern the direction from which the horses approached.

Glorfindel held his hand up in a signal to hold, for he could see his elves disconcerted looks. They had not heard the group until they were almost upon them, and that was not natural, thought the general. Yet there was nothing for it. Logic dictated they would be elves, wood-elves, for they were too close to Thranduil's abode for human travelers – they _were_ elves.

Sure enough, not seconds later, a large group of mounted elves cantered towards them, and Glorfindel – for all that he tried – could not rip his disbelieving eyes from them. Sindarin? Nay – he doubted that they were even _Silvan_, and then he wondered if they could be Avarin…

They were shouting and yipping and jeering, long pikes in their hands which they held over their heads, and as the group approached, Glorfindel realized what it was he had seen on their tips; heads – orc heads – long ropy hair flying in the breeze and blackened tongues hanging out of lax lips in the most obscene of grimaces.

The disgusting body parts did not seem to bother the warriors though, for they shook them in the air as trophies, which of course, was exactly what they were.

"Holy mother of…" began Elladan, who was then interrupted by Galanor.

"What – is _that_!" he exclaimed in disgust.

"_That_, warrior, is a group of woodland warriors after a battle," said Glorfindel matter-of-factly, betraying nothing of his own stupefaction. Elrohir spoiled it though, with a gigantic snort, and Glorfindel could do nothing more than smirk back at Elrond's son.

Three of the wild warriors approached the Noldo, their comrades still shouting and yelling behind them as they rode their mounts in circles. Stopping before Glorfindel, Elrond and his sons, one elf dismounted in one nimble jump to the forest floor. Walking forwards, he stabbed his own, head-heavy pike into the ground and approached the lords, his bare chest gleaming in the waning light.

"My Lord Elrond!" exclaimed the elf jovially, his face smudged in blackened blood that did nothing to hide the streaks of blue paint under his eyes and over his cheeks. _War_ paint, realized Glorfindel.

"Prince Legolas," said Elrond somewhat lamely, and Glorfindel suddenly wanted to laugh, for Legolas, or Taú, was bear-chested where Elrond was clad in heavy robes of velvet and silk. Taú's long silver-blond hair was in complete disarray around him, an eagle's feather stuck inside his half-undone back braid, where Elrond's long silken locks were severely confined into traditional braids of lordship.

Taú bowed formally, showing Elrond the crown of his messy head, feather and all, and Elrond returned the gesture with enviable calm, thought Glorfindel. They were opposites in almost everything, he mused. Their clothing, their hair, their features, yet one thing they _did_ have in common, for both exuded an air of authority that could not be denied. Yet where Elrond's was calm and a little sarcastic, Legolas' was hot, passionate, and brutally direct.

"Welcome to the Woodland Realm, my lords," said the prince, the euphoria of victorious battle still upon him. "We will guide you in, my Lord, if you will. There are some stragglers we were not able to intervene, and I am sure you will be more comfortable within my father' halls," he said with a knowing smile.

Glorfindel smirked as he picked up a relieved sigh from behind him – Lindir – he knew. Unfortunately, the sigh turned into a wretching sound and Glorfindel knew the bard must have caught sight of the spitted Uruk heads.

"Indeed," said Elrond with a smile, his own stupor now seeming to wear off. "Lead the way for we are anxious for a little comfort. The journey has been long and surprisingly – _uncomfortable_ – if you do not mind me saying so."

Legolas laughed scandalously, obviously imagining the _discomforts_ the Noldorin caravan would have come across.

"Your elf there, he pointed to Lindir who was now wiping his mouth with his silken white handkerchief. "What is wrong with him? Is it _poison_?" asked Tau as he mounted up again, his head swiveling to Elrond for clarification.

"Him? Nay, that is Lindir the Bard, Legolas."

"_Bard?_" echoed Legolas disbelievingly. "You brought a bard with you? To Mirkwood?" he said, his face twisted in a grimace of distaste.

"Yes," said Elrond lightly. "'Tis custom for the Noldo to travel with their bard. It makes for some diversion upon the road."

"I bet he was very _entertaining_," smirked Legolas, and Glorfindel guffawed as he slapped Taú upon his bare shoulder in greeting. Legolas regaled him with a brilliant smile, before he turned to Elrohir and clasped his forearm in brotherly affection.

"I am glad you are here, my friend," he said, only for Elrohir's ears.

"And I am glad to see you once more," smiled Elrohir. "I hope you have a big enough stock of wine for the both of us!"

"It is infinite, my friend, as you shall see. Come!" he bid as he turned his horse around to face his warriors. "We ride to the Greenwood to celebrate, for tonight, Gorhoshbak was slain!" shouted Taú as he shook his own pike high above his head and his elves roared.

Lindir, however, covered his ears in dismay, nearly losing his seat, and Galanor kicked his own mount into action, his lip raised on one side in a sneer of disdain. Elladan looked around in wonder as his own steed followed the rest, and Elrohir smiled in sincere delight. Elrond righted himself in the saddle, sitting taller as he arranged his cloak around him, and Glorfindel – Glorfindel watched them all, some with understanding, others with exasperation, even respect, and a few others, in utter dismay at what was surely to come.

The Valar preserve us, murmured Glorfindel, suddenly wishing he had stayed back in Imladris with Erestor.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Hello everyone! So sorry for the long delay, but real life has conspired against me. Hopefully I will be able to get back some sense of rhythm and not keep you all waiting for so long.

I really want to thank you all for reading and reviewing, favoriting and such. I think some of your reviews have gone unanswered and for that I am sorry. I like to reply to everyone who takes the time to comment and I will make sure that I do from now on.

Please enjoy.

CHAPTER TWO

'_We Noldor have a reputation, but that does not mean we should flaunt it, rather understand the Silvan society – alliance is close at hand, let us not ruin things as we once did, with petty arguments and intolerance…'_

Those had been Elrond's words before they had left Imladris. Thinking back on them, he suddenly wondered at their wisdom, for they had just stepped into what seemed to him now, to be another world, another dimension hitherto unknown to the outside world, even to the learned Noldor, for all their books and lore.

Had he known, his discourse would have been radically different. He would have instilled upon his travelling companions the need for caution and measure. It was too late now, though, and all he could do was hope and trust their better instincts.

Taú had utterly surprised him, for when Elrond had first discovered his true identity, the prince had deported himself with the utmost correctness – for the most part, at least. Here though, having met him just after the heat of battle – he was a different elf, indeed Elrond had wondered for a moment, if the being was even an elf at all!

They fight half-naked, he scoffed to himself. They paint their faces and mutilate their foes. They shout and scream and act like wolves on the hunt. _Elves?_ He had never seen the likes, or even heard of it, for all the majestic library of Imladris with its tomes of wisdom. Elrond had read almost all of them, and not once, had he read anything that could ever have prepared him for this…

Almost all of them, he repeated to himself, for there was one, dusty corner he had not entered at all…

It was worse than he could ever have thought, and the Lord of Imladris braced himself. If this was the son, what then, should he expect of the _father_?

…..

No sooner had they arrived, and Tau and his company thundered ahead, lost in a cloud of thick mist, into the unknown which lay ahead.

All the Noldo could hear were distant drums, and unintelligible voices but their eyes could make out nothing, and Glorfindel wondered if the phenomena was natural.

He shared one last look of trepidation with Elrond before urging his steed on, into the wall of humidity and to whatever lay beyond, and as they emerged, their eyes began to discern their surroundings.

An impressive stone structure lay carved into the very side of the mountain, at the base of which stood two massive open doors, glowing with inviting orange light. But to get to the doors, however, they had first to cross the courtyard, and _this,_ was where the Noldor now sat upon their still horses, faces completely straight as was proper – even though their minds were reeling.

The grounds before the mountain dwelling, were teeming with the woodelves of Mirkwood. They stood stock still, frozen where they stood. Women still held their cooking utensils, dripping fat, musicians still held their drumsticks poised over worked leather, and civilians and those too young to yet be counted as warriors, stood gaping at the newly-arrived entourage of strange, dark elves that dressed as kings.

Time had stopped for them all.

Glorfindel could hear his own breath, too fast, he reprimanded himself. It was as if he were contemplating a work of art – a tapestry of forest life.

The silence stretched on, and Glorfindel almost flinched when the woodelves finally moved once more, opening a path in their midst, their heads swiveled to the entrance of their mountain fortress; somebody was coming…

In the days to come, Glorfindel could not rightly say what it was he had been expecting, but he did know that it had not been _this_, not after what he had seen of Mirkwood so far. These elves shouted and cursed easily, they had a wild, animal-like air about them, their expressions worn clearly upon their faces. They ate meat off the bone and told lewd jokes…he shook his head in his mind's eye – was he talking of elves, or _dwarves_?

An elf glided towards them, followed by a group of six others. Glorfindel's mind was slow to wrench itself back to reality, the elves seeming to move just as slowly, and yet before he could fully react, the small party stood before him, and time had finally aligned with his addled mind.

The leader was tall and strong, yet his clothes were not those of a warrior, but the richest of fabrics, the likes of which he had only ever seen in Gondolin, or Imladris on special occasions. Heavy velvet and sheer silk, sat beneath the most supple of leathers and a mane of intricately braided hair, the color of which he had only ever seen once in these lands…_this_ – could only be Thranduil, Sindarin monarch of Greenwood the Great.

Elrond dismounted, temporarily distracting Glorfindel from his inner musing for but a moment, for his head swiveled back to the spectacle as if of its own accord.

Thranduil's power rippled just below the surface, below the green and burgundy silks that clung to his perfectly proportioned body. It simmered beneath the velvet of his cloak and the worked leather of his boots. It swirled and pulsed and emanated from every inch of his glowing form. It was something one felt but could not see, not unless you looked into his pale blue eyes of frosted mountain water.

Glorfindel's eyes looked into the extraordinary irises and saw the raw energy, the harnessed emotions, the keen intellect and sharp wit – aye he was dangerous! Glorfindel was old and wise enough to see it, and he knew Elrond was, too.

"Lord Elrond of Imladris," said the king in a deep, monotonous voice.

"King Thranduil of Mirkwood," replied Elrond, just as evenly.

'Admirable,' said Glorfindel to himself.

There was a collective gasp at Elrond's words and Glorfindel could not help his suddenly dry mouth when the Sinda's eyes narrowed fractionally, piercing those of his lord like frozen icicles as his head tilted to one side. A chill ran down Glorfindel's spine, for he was suddenly reminded of Galadriel.

"…The _Greenwood,_ is honoured with your presence, and that of your sons," said the king. "Ah, the Lord Glorfindel," he added, a minute hint of emotion sneaking into his words. "You are most welcome in these, troubled lands, _warrior_."

Glorfindel held the striking eyes of the king for a moment, before he bowed from the waist and swept his arm to the side in honored greeting. From anyone else, being called 'warrior' may have been misconstrued, an insult almost. Yet it seemed to Glorfindel that from the lips of this king, it was, rather, a complement.

"Come then, Noldorin Lords of Imladris and fair Gondolin, into the mountain keep of the Northern elves," he said in a voice much more powerful now. His mood had changed from predatory and analytical, to theatrical and charismatic, and Glorfindel chastised himself for wanting to shake his head in confusion yet again.

With an elegant gesture of his jeweled hand, the King signaled to his Sindarin companion, who moved forward and bid the Noldorin entourage accompany him. With a final bow of deference from the Noldor, and but a curt, replying nod from Thranduil, they were led away under the fascinated stares of the Woodelves of the Northern Kingdom of Thranduil, son of Oropher.

…..

The grounds were filled to the brim with elves who stood or sat around roaring hearths, dotted around the entire courtyard. Their shouts of glee and victory filled Elrond's senses almost to the point of pain, as they ate roasted hunks of meat and drank from earthenware cups without the slightest sense of decorum, and Elrond's lip curled in distaste.

"They are like _children_…" he mused.

"_Naughty children_," added Elrohir – but he did not sneer; he grinned in genuine humour, apparently unaware of his father's mounting irritation.

Glorfindel aligned himself with his lord, catching his attention with a single glance, for these two knew each other well.

"I advise the utmost caution, Elrond. We have walked unwittingly into a land unknown. We are at a severe disadvantage," said Glorfindel seriously.

Elrond's face soured for but a moment, reminded once more of that dusty corner of his library in Imladris.

"Aye, I have been remiss in my research, it seems. I cannot fathom this. The people are Silvan, it seems, the king is _not_ – which we already knew – he has not adopted their culture, it seems…"

"And yet his son," interjected Glorfindel.

"Yes, his son is both. This is what we saw in Imladris. He deported himself in a princely fashion when he was discovered, yet as a Silvan when under the guise of Taú."

"Then there is a third persona, one we are still ignorant of…" said Glorfindel.

"Not ignorant, no. Glorfindel, this is not a society of Silvan and Sindarin, for there is one ingredient you miss…"

Glorfindel's face blanched and could not help swallowing.

"The Avari, the Avari are _here_."

…..

Later that evening, Glorfindel found himself in the company of Elrond and Elrohir, sipping on wine as they dried their hair upon the vast balcony that graced the general's suite of rooms.

Conversation had not, yet, began; perhaps because there was just too much to comment on, and prioritizing was proving a complication.

Elrond drank from his goblet of wine, and then held it out in front of his eyes.

"It is surprisingly good, I will admit," said Elrond somewhat grudgingly, his lip twitching on one side.

"Elrond, you must curb your sourness, it is becoming far too visible, and Thranduil has an air of volatility about him," warned Glorfindel.

"I am too well-trained to let it show, Glorfindel," said Elrond confidently as he sipped his wine.

"And what of Thranduil's training? You must not underestimate him…"

"I will not," assured Elrond with a slight frown, obviously irritated that Glorfindel would even think such a thing of him.

"I - have _never_ met a more stunning being – I have not the words to… my mind has no … _label_, for him," stuttered Elrohir clumsily.

"That's one way of putting it," said Glorfindel wryly. "He has much – _presence_ – an underlying strength one intuitively knows is there," he said as he thought.

"Well, he must need it to rule over those – _barbarians_ out there," said Elrond, jerking his head to the open window in clear allusion to the din that still echoed around the stone caverns. "And where, pray tell, are the _Sindarin_ elves?" he added, almost as a complaint.

"Perhaps they all live together, have adopted the apparel of the Silvan elves. They would only be distinguishable by their coloring…" said Elrohir.

"No, impossible. I do not think that likely at all. The Sindar have nothing to do with what we have just seen out there – they would not fit in, I am sure," said Elrond with his usual confident air.

Glorfindel, however, did not seem convinced, yet he held his silence. Elrond was already negatively predisposed to the Silvan, and irritatingly confident in his knowledge of the Sindar. He understood, he supposed – Elrond could cope with the Sindar because they shared a common past, albeit a rocky one. But both people had a love of knowledge and culture, both had yielded extraordinary leaders, warriors and philosophers, and that is what Elrond respected.

"Well, wherever they are, when we find them, I think we would do well to employ the term _Greenwood_, rather than Mirkwood. Thranduil was clearly put out with the name," said Glorfindel a little ironically, to which Elrohir stifled a snort. Elrond, however, simply returned his General's gaze with a sour sneer.

A high pitched screaming reached their ears, followed by roars of laughter that echoed down the hallway outside the room.

"Oh Valar – Galanor and his men will be the death of Lindir…" said Elrohir.

Yet little did they know that it was not Galanor and his men at all, for the Silvans had found a new toy, and they would not lightly put it down.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note:

Hello everyone, happy Sunday. Thank you all so much for the reviews and faves, and I am sorry I could not answer the guests I hope you continue to enjoy the tale.

CHAPTER THREE

Elrond glided down the decorative corridors with an air of proud confidence about him that was completely unfounded, for he had taken a wrong turn and lead his party astray, much to the secret mirth of Elrohir . The area was strangely quiet, and they had not passed a single elf for a while.

"Elrond, we are _lost_…"

The Lord did not answer, albeit his left eyebrow arched in irritation and the obvious statement.

"Well, if they had only seen fit to guide us to the breakfast room instead of leaving us to follow the rest…"

"You mean like we did in Imladris with Tau´?" said Elrohir chirpily enough, even though his sarcasm was more than explicit.

"He was a messenger, we are _Lords_. There is a difference."

Good manners are either good or otherwise, independently of their recipient, mused Elrohir, his own father had taught him that. He would not give voice to _that _thought though, for it would antagonize his father, and that was never a good idea before breakfast.

Soon enough, voices became audible, and the party sped up, thinking to ask for directions, but as it turned out, what they came across was not what they had been expecting at all.

"No – out of the question. You take fifteen or you do not go."

"I _will_ go. We need as many as can be had for a stop at the Eastern villages that were pillaged last week, they are in dire need of aid."

"They can wait – you do not have to deploy both parties simultaneously…"

"I _do_ – intelligence suggests orcs are still lying in wait just North of those villages, and the spiders are moving to the West, towards our riverside settlements. They are at their most vulnerable."

"I said _no_."

Before Elrohir knew it, they were standing before the open doorway, and the young Noldo craned his neck just enough to see what was transpiring within the lusciously appointed room.

His eyes widened of their own accord as he watched Legolas stand tall and square before his equally imposing father, nose to noble nose. One was dressed for court and the other for war. One was ice and the other was fire, yet their eyes were an identical storm of lightning grey as they stared unblinkingly at each other.

"You tread dangerously, _Prince_. You dare defy your king?" said Thranduil quietly – dangerously.

"You are _wrong_…" replied Legolas unflinchingly.

"And yet obey, you _must_."

They stared at each other for a while longer, before Legolas' eyes dropped to the floor and he backed away. With a curt nod, he swiveled on his heels and strode to the door, only to stop short before the Noldorin entourage who stood quietly by, his braids still swaying around him.

Gathering himself quickly, Legolas bowed politely without establishing eye contact with any of them, before he quietly walked away, slower now.

Elrond turned to the king who stood within.

"I apologize, Thranduil. It seems we are lost and I did not wish to interrupt."

The king did not answer immediately, but walked slowly towards them, his robes rustling quietly in his wake.

"Then come, I will accompany you to the dining halls and breakfast. Perhaps we can discuss the days' activities," said the Monarch quietly.

No one spoke again until they found themselves sitting at the king's table. Legolas, however, was nowhere to be seen, noted Elrohir as he ate his breakfast.

His father, brother and Thranduil spoke quietly as a Sindarin advisor leaned in to take note of what the lords said, but Elrohir was too caught up in his own inner musings, as his eyes wandered the room and registered the smaller things, things that many others failed to observe, or so he had been told many times.

This was a far cry from the elves they had seen just yesterday upon their arrival, and Elrohir supposed these elves were predominantly Sindarin. Indeed they were well-dressed and well-mannered, their hair lighter and their complexions whiter.

So, he recapitulated, the Sindar dine inside, and the Silvan and Avari outside. But was that, perhaps, a decree? Or was it simply a difference in their ways? Did this crucible of cultures mesh? Or was there rivalry between them?

Elrohir continued to scan the room as his hand worked automatically to feed himself.

There, at the end of the hall, was a table of warriors. Definitely Silvan, and perhaps some Avari. The noise level was significantly louder and their speech was unintelligible – a Silvan dialect of some sort, wondered Elrohir as he watched their faces. Some words and gestures, however, were universally understood.

They were laughing and jeering and shoving each other as they ate, and one particularly large specimen was making exaggerated movements with his hands – smoothing down his hair, and then screaming as the others laughed scandalously and slapped their thighs in mirth.

Elrohir had the sneaking feeling they were mocking someone – a certain bard, perhaps, although he could not be sure – not until Legolas entered the room and the table of warriors was thrown into utter silence.

From the corner of his eye, Elrohir new the king had registered his son's arrival, albeit he continued his conversation with Elrond.

Full attention back on the warriors once more, he watched as Legolas move to stand amidst them, his own, piercing eyes moving from one to the next.

The prince must have said something, for of a sudden, the warriors stood abruptly, their chairs scraping noisily over the wooden flooring, causing the quiet chatter in the room to die, along with his father's conversation.

Legolas jerked his head towards the door. The warriors were out of it before Elrohir could blink, and he made a note to ask his friend what he had said to them.

"Elrohir," said Legolas by way of a greeting as he sat himself down, as far away from his father as he could manage, noted Elrond's son.

"Bad morning?" asked Elrohir.

"Oh aye – but, on the good side, that means that things can only get better, doesn't it?"

Elrohir looked at his friend skeptically, before smiling helplessly and the prince. "What did you say to them?"

"Now, why would you think I said something to them?"

"Well, if my Noldorin intuition serves me well, they were mocking our dear Lindir, and, they did seem – a little concerned after your arrival? Enough to flee the morning meal post haste…?"

"Ah yes, well. I may have mentioned something about today's rear guard and clean up duty – that kind of thing. Silvan warriors do not like rear guard…"

Elrohir smiled as he ate. "Are you out on patrol today?"

"Not a patrol, so much as a coordinated operation. We have two issues we must deal with."

"Legolas, do me a great favor and accept me on your foray – I have no intention of joining our fathers' talks, if that is what they can be called. Elladan is the elder brother – he will do it, and gladly I would wager."

Legolas seemed to be considering his petition, but then turned to him in thought.

"We are short of warriors and your presence would be helpful. Yet as a guest of the realm I must ask my lord father."

"Do it! Don't leave me here to wither away – show me your woodland warrior ways, tell me of the Silvan and the Avari, of your tactics and strategies, of the problems you face. All this should well be considered intelligence my father and Glorfindel will find useful to our own lands ."

"It is a good argument. I will see what I can do," said the prince as he stood and approached his father, still immersed in conversation.

"Prince Legolas," said Thranduil coolly, to which Legolas bowed.

"My king. Lord Elrohir has suggested he would like to accompany me on today's mission. He believes the information to be gleaned from it would be helpful to his own people, and I am inclined to see the wisdom of his request."

Thranduil turned to Elrond, before turning back to his son.

"Should Lord Elrond agree to such, then I have no objections, under your responsibility, of course."

"Lord Elrond?" asked Legolas.

"Prince Legolas. I see the benefits of such an excursion, if you will guarantee his safety."

Legolas seemed surprised at Elrond's last statement, and voiced his concerns in spite of the warning glance from his father.

"My Lord. I cannot guarantee his safety, not in the Mirkwood. I can, however, guarantee that I will do everything in my power to keep him from harm's way."

Elrond was quiet for a while, before he nodded slowly.

"I appreciate your sincerity, Prince Legolas. Elrohir will accompany you if he so wishes."

Legolas smiled and bowed, before joining Elrohir once more, clapping him on the shoulder and then leaving to prepare. And behind him, Glorfindel watched him leave, the sparkle of mischief in his eyes.

….

The warriors had left and Elrond was now sitting in the King's private study.

"Your son bears a remarkable resemblance to your lord father, Thranduil."

"More than you know," replied the king as he handed Elrond a goblet of rich wine.

"The more superstitious members of our society believe he is Oropher reincarnated. He is not, and yet the similarities are astounding."

"You must be very proud…" prompted Elrond, for he was interested in the relationship the king and prince shared.

Thranduil simply smiled as he sat and sipped on his wine before speaking.

"He is known as the War Prince by the Silvan and Avari. He is highly respected by them."

"And the Sindar?" asked Elrond.

"They, _respect_ him, although perhaps they wish he were a little more – like me…" he trailed off.

"In what way?" asked Elrond lightly, knowing he was, perhaps, pushing his luck.

"A statesman, a politician."

"You were not always so, if my memory serves."

"No, but neither was I the warrior that Legolas is. I can handle a sword and lead an army, aye – but he – he has a charisma about him that can drive them to any end, Elrond. I could ask for no finer general for my army."

"Not a diplomat then?" said Elrond with a smile as he drank and pondered the king's words.

Thranduil returned the smile. "Nay, not a diplomat…, but then, neither is your son Elrohir, if I am not mistaken."

Elrond was impressed; the king was right, and he said as much. Thranduil was, indeed, intuitive, and so very observant.

And thus, the two lords sat for long hours, discussing politics and strategy and encroaching darkness, for in spite of the odds, the two had more in common than either of them would ever have thought. Thranduil was not the uncouth monarch he had expected – but then he _was _Sindarin…

…..

Elrohir, Legolas and their group of 11 warriors wandered far to the South of the fortress, in search of spiders and the orcs that threatened the eastern settlements, but little did they know that they would find much, more than they had bargained for…


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four

Benar slapped Doran on the shoulder as he chuckled merrily.

"You cannot have it all, Silvan. Merylyth is flirting shamelessly with you but she is also going to make you pay for her attentions! They do not come free and she is enjoying the whole thing far too much!" he snickered, secretly enjoying his friend's predicament and frustration.

"Well, she is _Avari_ – I had expected no less."

"It's why you love her, isn't it? Wild and unbroken!" smiled Benar knowingly, to which Doran beamed dreamily as they walked to the meeting point, his eyes shiny, their focus lost.

"Benar, Doran!" called Glorfindel as he walked towards them, still buckling his quiver across his chest, his mighty sword laying obediently at his armor-clad side.

"My Lord Glorfindel," bowed Benar reverently. "Are you joining us in the field today?" he asked, surprised that one such as the Lord of Gondolin would see fit to do so, and that Legolas had not seen fit to inform them of such an honor.

"I am indeed…" he began, but was cut off by Legolas, who was striding by.

"_Are_ you now?" he said ironically without stopping for Glorfindel to answer, knowing full well the general would follow him.

"Yes, I came to the Greenwood to gather intelligence – there is no better way for me to do so," he said matter-of-factly as he strode alongside the Greenwood's young commander.

Legolas stopped and turned to Glorfindel.

"Does Elrond know you are here?" he asked, skepticism written all over his handsome face.

"No, but he set me a mission and did not specify how I was to go about it. Initiative is paramount for a person in my position," he said somewhat blithely, eliciting a knowing smile from Legolas.

"And yet the responsibility is mine, should anything – _untoward_, happen to you."

"It will not, plus I take that responsibility for my own, with Benar and Doran as my witnesses.

Legolas considered for a moment, before nodding. "Not the council room type, then?" he asked rhetorically, "in spite of your _Noldorin _heritage?"

Glorfindel's smile was lopsided.

"No, and neither are _you, _grandchild of Oropher, in spite of your Sindarin blood_._ Can you brief us as we ride out?"

"Of course. It would be my honor if you will do so at my right…my warriors will be awed at your presence and service."

Glorfindel nodded, accustomed as he was to the reverence of the Noldorin warriors, readily accepting the confidence Legolas placed in him. Indeed he was more than eager to see for himself the worth of this, so called 'war prince'. And then there was his insatiable need to find out about what he had seen on the day of their arrival, that frenzied wildness, the savageness he simply had not expected.

Legolas hesitated and then turned back to Glorfindel, his brow furrowed.

"And you are riding out – like _that_?" he asked, his disbelieving eyes travelling from the golden head to the ornately decorated boots.

"Yes – and why _not_?" asked the general challengingly, somewhat put out that this woodland – warrior – would question his attire, no less!

"You may find certain elements of your dress a little - _cumbersome_, shall we say."

"Cumbersome," repeated Glorfindel, his face utterly blank.

Elrohir however, was obviously enjoying himself, albeit he was similarly clothed in darker fabrics and armor.

"Speed is of the element where we are bound, my friend – but you will do as you will, of course," added the prince lightly with a flick of his wrist.

Glorfindel did not splutter, to his merit, but his disbelief was plain for all to see.

Elrohir looked over to Glorfindel, one eyebrow raised in silent question. Gathering himself, the General rather suspected what that question had been. Had Glorfindel included himself on this mission to protect his lord's son?

It really was not necessary, for the General had seen the friendship between Legolas and Elrohir click so naturally and firmly into place; they had known each other for mere days, and yet there was a legendary friendship in the making; Elrohir knew this, and Glorfindel did too.

As Legolas turned towards the stables, he simply raised an eyebrow at Elrohir's attire, and then broke out into what the Noldorin prince could only later describe, as _mischievous…_

…

And so they rode out, and Glorfindel pondered the situation he now found himself in.

That display of base warriorship they had come across quite by chance - the shouting and jeering, the revelry in what had obviously been a torturous death for their enemies – it had him perplexed. Unlike Elrond though, Glorfindel had not put it down to simple uncouthness; he knew there was a reason for it, tactical or cultural, and whatever it was, he had set himself the unmovable task of finding out. He simply could not believe that this was their way – there had to be a _reason_ for it.

"You were concerned this morning, a simultaneous foray your father would not agree to…," ventured Elrohir, who rode to the left of Táu, as the warriors were now calling him.

"Yes," he replied carefully. "It is unfortunate you came to witness that. There are spiders to the East of the settlement, and an orc group to the West. The spiders are closer, or so our intelligence suggests."

"But your military is large, from what I can see," said Glorfindel. "Surely you can spare the warriors…"

"There is a battle to the South, Glorfindel. There are over five hundred warriors in the base camp. If we do not drive them back there, we will have more to worry about than the Eastern settlements. The Avari are holding it, protecting a good part of our crops and the folk that cultivate them – a defeat there would cripple us, in more ways than one. "

"Five hundred!" exclaimed Elrohir as his struggled to digest what Tau had described.

"How many are left at the fortress?" asked Glorfindel, his eyes unfocussed as his tactical mind worked.

"Three hundred. There are fifteen on this mission, but there are many other missions around our realm. My king is concerned at sending too great a number out to the same area, and for the safety of the fortress itself. Anything less than 150 home guards would be an invitation to the enemy…"

"You are hard pushed," conceded Elrohir as he glanced over to Glorfindel.

"Surely fifteen more would not undermine safety in other areas? We talk of settlements, of civilians – women and _children_…"

"Yes," replied Tau, a little too quickly, before looking down and visibly collecting himself. "It is a matter of – _logistics _– or so the king would say. There are thirty civilians in that settlement, farmers mostly. There are other more populated areas that are in just as much danger as these people are. "

"I see…" said Glorfindel.

"He thinks as a king, as an administrator, his mind is as rational and as logical as it can be…"

"And you – you think with your _heart_…" finished Elrohir.

Legolas held his gaze with his bright blue eyes. "Yes… for good or for bad, that is what drives me."

There was silence for a moment, before Taú spoke once more.

"I know what you would say, Glorfindel. That I am young, that logic is the tactician's most powerful tool."

"That you should say so tells me you are not devoid of it yourself, but yes – I would say this. Your father is right, however cruel he may seem."

"To others, to the Avari and the Silvan, he seems that way at times, however much they respect and admire him, follow him. But they argue that he is not in the field, he does not suffer the devastation of immortal death, torture and pain. And yet, you see, they are _wrong_…" he trailed off.

Glorfindel spared a quick glance at Elrohir, concern beginning to show itself on his stern features.

"It took but one death, for that devastation to take his soul, to remind him of it every single day of his long existence. He _does_ understand. And yet he was born a king, and the lives of his subjects, the responsibility it entails, is stronger than any other emotion – he will not be swayed. If he can choose between thirty deaths and 50, he will sacrifice those thirty and by the Gods he will not waver, will feel no guilt."

"And for that he has my respect," said Glorfindel resolutely. "If he believes that 15 more warriors are better employed elsewhere, he is surely right."

"Yes, and yet I am their Prince, Glorfindel. I am a half-breed, Sindarin, Silvan, they look to me as their spokesperson. It is my duty to advocate for these people, to achieve what I may from my king for them."

Glorfindel was beginning to understand. He had these people's loyalty, they related to him in a way they did not to Thranduil, that was what had created Taú – Taúron – his Silvan mother's name for her only child, one it seemed she had given to the people of the wood.

A sudden burst of bird song exploded around them and Legolas wheeled his horse around to face the warriors.

"Spiders! Formation four – Doran - up, Benar – behind, Elrohir, Glorfidel, down – with me!" he shouted.

"I thought you were an archer," said Elrohir as he dismounted, slapping his mount on the rump.

"I am – but not all archers shoot from the trees, Noldo!" exclaimed Legolas as he strung his long bow and scanned the treetops.

"Have you ever battled spiders?" asked Taú softly as he watched the canopy, his eyes straining to their limits.

"Eh, no," said Elrohir innocently as he drew his sword. There was something in his tone that had Taú looking at him in askance.

"What he means," interrupted Glorfindel, "is that we have never even _seen_ a woodland spider before…"

Taú simply stared dumbly at the Gondolin warrior, his mouth suddenly dry as he swallowed thickly.

"You have battled a Balrog…" he said stupidly.

"Legolas, a Balrog – is a _Balrog._ A woodland spider…"

"Is a woodland _spider_! Shouted Elrohir as he flung himself to the side only just in time, his pitch black hair dancing around him.

A thwack preceded an unholy screech and the creature thrashed its hairly legs in the air as it struggled and failed to right itself.

"_That _– is a woodland spider," snarled Legolas.

But Elrohir and Glorfindel could only stare at the massive arachnid in the final throes of death.

'What on Arda would Lindir make of _that_!' exclaimed Glorfindel to himself.


	5. Chapter 5

I just wanted to thank all those guests out there, and those of you that have disabled private messaging. Thank you for your comments, I really do appreciate them and would have loved to answer them all.

And, to one of my reviewers who truly hates spiders, I have included that gem of phrase you used in your review – I hope you don't mind

Chapter five

Elrohir righted himself just in time to jab his ancient Noldorin sword upwards and into the furry neck of a screaming spider. Too late, he realized, that he had not hit one of its vulnerable spots, for it merely shrieked in anger as it ran towards him once more, a frenzy of hairy legs and gnashing, fanged chops.

"_Elrohir_! Shouted Legolas from nearby, "eyes, upper belly, base of the neck from above!"

'Ah well,' said Elrohir ironically to himself as he swirled to the side and took a swing at the disgusting creature's eyes. He missed miserably and was made to endure another, ear shattering screech, watching with rounded, trembling eyes as it barred its jagged mouth in an open invitation to skewer himself.

A ripping sound off to his left barely distracted him before he was face to face with the creature once more, its stinger crashing into the ground again and again, kicking up enough dust to almost blind him.

Closing his eyes for but a moment, he centred himself, in spite of the incessant thwack of arrows fired at a speed he had never even dreamed of before, and the shouts and screams of the warriors around him. His father had taught him this; 'block it all out, feel only your own mind, your own body...,

His sparkling grey eyes were open in a flash and his arms began their powerful dance, his mithril blade humming its song of devastation.

Now, if he could only get those beady eyes, that fleshy neck, the bald patch just above the stomach…

His own innards almost rebelled but he called once more on his Noldorin strength and suddenly, almost without realizing how he had done it, the beast crashed to the ground in a cloud of dry dust.

A cheer went up around him and he sneered his contempt for the creature, allowing but a small token of self-pride to infuse him for just a moment.

It didn't last long though, for of a sudden he found himself paralyzed, unable to move forwards however much he struggled.

One hairy leg had pinned him to the ground by his cloak as its shrieking owner fought a Silvan warrior.

Elrohir's eyes widened in nascent panic for not only could he not move, but he could not turn – only his head was free, enough for him to see the beast's stinger pierce the warrior's leg.

Sword in one hand, with the other he desperately pulled at the rich blue velvet. It did not move though, and neither did it tear, a testimony to the quality of the fabric, he thought wryly as he struggled desperately with it.

It was then that pain lanced up his left leg and he looked down stupidly, catching the tip end of the stinger that had just pierced the soft flesh of his calf.

Puzzled at his sudden lack of orientation, he looked around him as if only now noticing the battle.

Every warrior was engaged in the fierce battle. They were strong, and angry, merciless and lethal. He watched Benar and Doran with their swords, the Avari with their pikes and short bows, and Legolas with a set of short swords he twisted and swirled expertly, his long bow nowhere to be seen.

"_Elrohir_!" came the prince's hoarse cry. "Elrohir, unbuckle it, _open the clasp_!" screamed the prince, but Elrond' s son could only frown in confusion at his friend's words. 'Unbuckle _what_?' he wondered.

"_Elrohir!"_ came another cry – that of Glorfindel – he would recognize that voice anywhere, yet he was quite simply perplexed at why they were shouting at him – he was _alive_, wasn't he?

"_No!"_

"_Stay_, I will go – _find_ us!"

"_No!"_

'What are they _talking_ about?' mused Elrohir as a sudden wave of tiredness hit him. It must have been a long, arduous battle, because his muscles were stiff and sweat dripped down his neck. And yet as he pondered the conundrum, Elrohir knew, somewhere in his mind, that not all was right; indeed something was very terribly wrong.

…..

No sooner had they engaged, and a feeling of angry dread rolled over him. He had made a novice mistake, and it had been his own arrogance that had not allowed him to see it before. Legolas had warned him, indirectly, and Glorfindel had seen only the cheek of the Prince's comment, not the message itself.

Even now, the moment danced around in his mind's eye, taunting his pride. Silver blond hair dancing before him, a mighty blade slicing through ancient fabric from hem to neck, silken fabric of the finest quality floating slowly to the ground like a waterfall of silken opulence… 

Now, he damned his Noldorin arrogance and swore that, if they got out of this one, he would never again, wave aside a well-intended warning, however much it irked him – nor would he wear his beautiful, ruined, Gondolin cloak…

He spared the sliced fabric one more guilty look as it lay, innocently upon the forest floor at his feet. It was irreplaceable – and it was the price he was to pay for his stupidity.

Eyes and mind back on the battle, Glorfindel half observed Taú as he fought. The prince was good, nay he was _very_ good, for he drew on his powerful bow again and again, at a speed Glorfindel had only once seen before. His aim was infallible, yet it was no wonder that Doran stayed at his side, for while he shot he was utterly vulnerable. A bow such as the one the prince wielded could not be used from the trees, he could see that now.

Swinging his own blade this way and that, he heard Taú call out the spiders' vulnerable spots to Elrohir who was battling close by.

With the information he needed, Glorfindel aimed at the upper stomach of his rival as it reared upon its hind legs. His powerful lunge sunk his sword into the gelatinous flesh with a sickening squish.

Curling his lip, he pulled back out and watched the sticky liquid as it rolled down his sword, knowing the spider was done for…

"_Watch out_!" called Benar, who was before him in a flash of chestnut hair. A scraping sound drew Glorfindel's eyes to the severed stinger the Silvan had sliced through, just before it had pierced the general's foot.

"It was _dead_!" he shouted in his defense.

"An involuntary reflex!" called Benar over his shoulder as he disappeared into the fray once more.

Closing his eyes only briefly to stem the rising tide of anger, Glorfindel continued to battle with the spiders, and after a while, just when he thought they may need to fall back and regroup, the unthinkable happened. The spiders retreated, and the battle was over.

He strode over to Benar who was arguing frantically with an Avarin warrior, the rest of the troupe behind him.

"We go _now_, we bring our prince back!" said the dark elf vehemently.

"_No!_ We return to base camp, we heal our wounds and we _think_. We know where they have gone."

"You cannot be ser…."

"I _am_ serious!" raged Benar as he stepped into the Avari's personal space, his nose but inches away from the furious, strangely dark elf.

"We run after him now, in our current state, and we lose the battle, _and_ our prince. _Think_!" shouted Benar as he tapped his finger against the warrior's temple.

To his credit, the Avari flinched and the warriors looked to the floor in obedience. Benar was the commanding officer now, and Glorfindel was fascinated at the transformation – the Silvan was no longer young and lighthearted, but fierce and – _wise_…

Indeed only now had he realized that Taú was not amidst them, but he was not the only missing member of their party.

"Elrohir?" he said softly as his eyes looked around in dread.

Benar turned towards him.

"Taken – by spiders. He is not dead, Glorfindel, and Taú and Doran are after him. They will keep him safe until we can track them and deal with the enemy."

Glorfindel was hard-pressed to avoid reacting just as the Avari had, but he saw the wisdom of Benar's words, and so he nodded his consent, steeling himself for a rescue mission that simply had to succeed. However he could not avoid the foul humor that had taken him, and during their short journey back to their base camp, the Silvan and the Avari avoided the fuming lord, assuming he was simply distressed at the loss of his Noldorin prince.

Little did they know of the ancient elf's turmoil, for on the inside, he berated himself for his arrogance, his ill-directed pride, and his incompetence as a slayer of spiders, for he had been unable to protect his young lord, and Glorfindel's mind screamed '_failure_.'

…

Hushed conversation floated upon the air and Thranduil watched them all as he sat at the high table together with his highest ranking officials and his Noldorin guests.

"The Noldo are as arrogant as they are dangerous, best not get too close to them. I mean I hardly need to remind anyone of…"

"They can read your _mind_, you know, root for your deepest secrets and then use them against you…"

They spoke for the most part in a Silvan dialect Elrond's people would surely not understand, indeed by the look on their faces, this was surely the case.

Thranduil wondered if they had any idea at all of what his people said of them, of the pre conceived ideas they held. They surely must, he mused, for they had been witness to Legolas' experience in their own lands. Yet as Noldo, perhaps they thought the Silvan-Sindarin-Avarin crucible would welcome them as heroes? See them as the superior beings they so obviously believed themselves to be.

The king snickered to himself as his mind began to offer him scenes of the adventures they were surely soon to live. However he shut them out almost as soon as they had started, for he could feel his own lips twitching, and a fascinating tingle of revenge had begun to take hold of him. No, he could not risk offending them just yet. There was too much at stake. That was his son's game, and the thought of his fierce, mischievous child who had no filters, brought a genuine, healthy smile to his face.

"Elrond, I thought perhaps we could meet privately, after lunch in my quarters?" asked the king rhetorically.

Elrond turned to Thranduil as he sipped on his wine.

"Of course," he replied lightly, and the Sindar held his gaze for a few more seconds, before turning his eye away. It was time to take their nascent friendship to the next level. It was a risk he was more than aware of, for too much intimacy too soon could put the lord on the defensive and that was not in Thranduil's interest. He needed an ally in Elrond, not a foe.

His frosty blue eyes turned to Elrond's hand as it gripped the glass of wine he held. It was soft and white, his fingers long and dexterous. The hands of a scholar, mused Thranduil, the hands of a healer, he continued. He stopped short then, as his gaze centred on the Noldo's ring finger. 'What was that?' he asked himself as he tried and failed to focus on what it was that sat there – and yet there was nothing…

As he looked up at Elrond he almost startled to find the lord already looking straight at him. His grey gaze was even and knowing, and there was a warning in his eyes, a warning not to ask, for he would receive no answer.

And Thranduil thought he understood. 'How ironic,' he said to himself, 'how very ironic…'

Not far away, down a lonely walkway, Lindir sat upon the stone floor, his head in his hands. He had managed to escape the Noldorin bullies that Galanor led, but not so the Silvan and Avarin warriors. They had been chastised by Taú, their commanding officer, but that had done little to stop their taunting. Indeed it had only served to make it a little crueler, for they flicked at his hair and picked at his clothing.

Lindir was of the Noldo, yet his own people were making his life miserable. Add to that the Silvan and Avari – he was not quite sure what to make of it. Yes he knew it had happened along the way to Mirkwood, when the creatures and insects had begun to appear and Lindir had lost his dignity.

He just could not help it; they made his skin crawl and his innards turn to liquid. It had been enough for the foreigners to mock him for his weakness, his squeamishness and although it was pathetic, at least he knew where their contempt came from. But Galanor?

He shook his head, still cradled in his hands, and then resolved to take whatever they gave him with as much dignity as he could.

As he walked, he came across a large painting, sitting at the far end of the corridor he navigated.

She was blonde, like him. Her face of pure marble and eyes of striking green. Her eyes were sad, too, just like Lindir's, as if she, too, had resigned herself to her fate. She was beautiful and Lindir stood there for long moments, admiring the lines of purity, the heart-breaking beauty – confined to decorate the walls of a remote corridor where none could look upon her.

He knew then, whom he contemplated, and although Lindir was no warrior, the bard _did_ have a weapon nonetheless, one far more effective than the sharpest of mithril blades. He had his art, he had his _lyrics_…

…

"Taú, hurry," whispered Doran frantically, his whole body taught as he stood stock still in the midst of dense foliage and twisted roots, his weapons held tight in his battle-ready hands.

A ripping sound told Doran his prince was working, sawing through the sticky fibers of spider resin, in search of the paralyzed elf that lay inside the cocoon.

"_Haste_!"

"Almost there…"

Taú clenched his jaw as he cut frantically, pulling the elastic tentacles aside and then away from Elrohir's inert body.

"Let's _go_!" whispered Legolas, first dragging the body away, and then stopping briefly to swing it over his shoulder.

"Heavy," he grunted, as Doran ran ahead of him, his sword drawn.

They slowly navigated their way out of the thicket, into a slightly more open area of forest, and experience told both warriors it would be safe to rest for a few moments.

With Elrohir laid flat out now, and Taú carefully administering the anti-venom all Mirkwood warriors carried with them, Doran continued his fierce protection of the two elves.

"How long until he comes back to himself?" murmured Doran.

"An hour, maybe two…" he said distractedly as he dressed the small wound on his friend's leg.

"We should leave…" warned Doran.

"Yes," replied Taú, "I know." There was something in the air, a foulness that was not spider-kind, and by the intensity of it, whatever was out there, was close, and numerous.

Legolas knew then, without the slightest shadow of a doubt. His warriors would never reach them in time.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's note: again, thank you to all those guests who reviewed and that I could not answer personally. _

_I would especially have liked to reply to Helen's review. I am normally very grateful to readers who point out errors or make positive suggestions. In this case, I must admit that your words sounded as though you were saying, "ok, you've just leaned the word 'nascent' and now you want to use it all the time." I found that a little negative – plus, I can assure you I have NOT just learned the word; and even if I had, that would not be grounds for criticism in my books._

_It happens sometimes, you use an adjective one too many times without realizing you just used it a little further up – beta readers will pick you up on that, and as this story is, as yet, unbeta'ed, well, I humbly apologize for the 'word of the week'._

Chapter six

Taú crouched upon the ground, a still inert Elrohir lying before him.

Doran held his prince's gaze knowingly, his eyes almost defying his commanding officer to say the words that he knew would now roll from his lips, as if they meant nothing at all.

"You must go back and alert our warriors track us…" Tau´s eyes were blank, forbidding, but that did not stop Doran from trying anyway.

"You cannot, you are a lord of this realm, Taú. You cannot place yourself in harm's way…"

"And that is precisely why I _must_! This, is Elrond's son, Doran. He deserves no less."

"Even so, my Lord,"

"Not here…"

"Taú, your father would not approve…"

"My father is not _here…_" he replied vehemently yet quietly.

"Please…"

"There is no other way, Doran. We two cannot win a battle, and much less defending an unconscious elf – it would take but four of them to defeat us, and by the smell, you know there are many more than four…"

He was right; Doran had known that from the beginning, but that did not stop him from trying to keep his friend from the orcs. Friend, Prince, _Brother…_

"We could flee, track back to the main group, they will already be in pursuit."

"We would not reach them in time, the orcs are too close and we cannot outrun them with Elrohir, we cannot take to the trees – but _you_ can…"

And there it was, that cold reasoning that was the pure Sindarin side of the king's son.

Defeated, Doran could only hang his head and close his eyes for one, steadying moment. Then, kneeling beside his prince, he placed a hand on his shoulder and caught his gaze with pleading eyes.

"You will be caught, this you already know, I can see it in your eyes."

Taú made to answer his friend, but one palm before his face stopped him short.

"Do not make promises you cannot keep, my friend. Just – just remember the protocol and – minimize the damage…."

Silence lay between them until Taú simply nodded, and Doran returned the gesture.

"I will run like the winds of November, and I will be back to take you home, Prince of the Woodland Realm."

Taú smiled a sad smile but he remained silent, for there was nothing else to say.

…..

"My Lord Thranduil, do your Sindarin citizens not join the outside festivities?" enquired Elrond as he walked to the bookshelf that lined the walls of the king's study. "Upon our arrival I was surprised to see only the Silvan members of your society," he added as he plucked a book from the shelf.

"Silvan and Avarin, Elrond. Aye, some of them do – the younger generations can be counted amongst our woodland merry-makers. But you see, Elrond, they, precisely, form the bulk of my warriors. Those you saw celebrating were their families, rejoicing for the battle won."

Elrond simply nodded, tucking the information away for future use. He had suspected as much – the Sindarin were higher ranking; councilors, politicians, teachers… but the Woodland king had not finished.

"You have much to learn of the Greenwood, _Lore_ master, concluded the king, his frosty eyes weighing heavily upon Elrond's silver irises.

'Lore master' – sarcastic indeed, mused Elrond to himself.

"You believe warrior status to be below what you consider the nobler occupations. You believe the Sindar are above our woodland citizens. You are _wrong_," said the king, his head slipping to the side, obviously curious as to how Elrond would react to his blunt words.

"My Lord Thranduil, indeed I have much to learn of your culture, for the gap of centuries of silence lies between us. Books are born of personal experience and learning, and this is the first invitation _you_ have extended to us…"

Elrond had been most pleasant, but it was hard to beat him for sarcasm, and Thranduil's slightly raised eyebrow was testimony to how well he had returned the rebuff.

"Books," repeated Thranduil with a twisted smile Elrond did not miss.

"Is there no value in books, Thranduil? Is there nothing to be learned from the sciences and arts?"

"Little good it will do my warriors who fight every day to keep their families safe – you cannot kill an orc with a lyre, Elrond, and I daresay a book would get you no further."

"No, but through books comes understanding, and with understanding – comes empathy. Only with empathy can alliance be sought, Thranduil – and there is strength in that."

"You were always a philosopher – or so my father would say."

"And he was not wrong."

"Little good it will do you here, Elrond – philosophy and empathy are joys to be had of peace, not war."

"Perhaps," replied Elrond softly, admiring the king's agile mind.

The king's jaw clenched as he drank deeply from his wine, and then turned back to Elrond as if nothing at all had transpired.

There was _one_ thing at least, that the king had in common with his son, apart from the colour of his hair, mused Elrond. He too, was feral, albeit it was a different kind of wildness. This king was dangerous because he was utterly unreadable, volatile yet measured, refined and yet drawn to the prohibited Elrond would wager, to the unbridled passion of those he ruled over; the Silvan and the Avari.

"We have been alone for many years, fighting the darkness," began Thranduil suddenly, and Elrond thought he saw the spark of tiredness in the king's expression.

"You rather gave the impression that you _wanted_ to be left alone…" prompted Elrond, aware that the territory was becoming slippery once more.

"And perhaps we _did,_" challenged the king, his gaze squaring on Elrond. "Our last – _collaboration_ – was not precisely successful," he added drolly.

"Indeed not. It seems none of us ever moved past that pivotal moment…"

"Yes. As I said," continued the king softly, "we of the Greenwood are alone in our fight against darkness."

"You have allies, Thranduil. You need but call upon them…"

"You truly believe that all those centuries of badness between us would disappear with a simple call for _aid_? Tell me, where are our allies _now_? In the South where my people fight a _war_ – not a battle, Elrond, a fully-fledged _war_! Will you tell me now that Galadriel does not know of it?"

Elrond looked on, stunned at the king's outburst, for he had stood tall and proud, his face noble and beautiful; and yet the burden of death floated behind his extraordinary eyes, his nostrils flared and for a moment, it was Legolas, wild and arcane, standing before him.

Calming his own nerves, Elrond collected himself as his quick mind began to wade through the words the king had thrown at him.

This was the turning point, he realized. This, was what had estranged their people even more than they already had been after the Morannon. This simple thing: if the Noldo had foresight, then they would know what was transpiring beyond their own borders. Thranduil felt ignored, his people relegated to the status of animals, unworthy of the Noldo's help.

"It does not work that way," uttered Elrond softly – almost to himself, for the realization of Thranduil's mistrust and wrath was ill-directed, fruit of his misconceived ideas of the Noldo and their abilities. Yet this time, the ignorance was not met with his disdain, it was, quite simply, sadness that he felt, and perplexity that he had not thought to question the wherewithal of Thranduil's reticence. He had been too quick to assume it had been prejudice, to eager to believe it was the fruit of Silvan ignorance.

"It does not work that way," repeated Elrond, a little louder now.

Thranduil stood before him, goblet in hand, his head slightly cocked to one side as if trying and failing to read Elrond's meaning.

"Foresight, Thranduil. It is not balanced, not always present. It is flippant and frivolous in ways we still cannot understand. It chooses when to appear, those who wield it cannot evoke it at will – it comes to us – or it does not," said Elrond passionately, his eyes searching for comprehension in Thranduil's eyes.

"We did not ignore you," ventured the Lord of Imladris. "We have not failed you, for this war you speak of was veiled to us, almost as if – as if purposefully hidden from our searching eyes, for search we _have_."

Thranduil breathed deeply. "They are led by the Witch King, Elrond – he has no such power as to block your Noldorin foresight."

Elrond nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the king's.

"Yes. _Strange_ – is it not?"

Thranduil scowled at the implications.

"Are you suggesting there is a wizard at work?" he asked carefully.

"It is a possibility that cannot be discarded. All we know, is that magic may be at work. Who wields it – we know not."

There was silence in Thranduil's study as the two lords thought on what had been said, what had been revealed…

A war was raging in the South, and the people of the Greenwood thought the Noldo had been ignoring their plight purposefully.

"Perhaps," said Elrond as he sat heavily upon a plush chair. "Perhaps we can start anew, Thranduil. Cast aside this prejudice we both cling to and step into a collective future…"

"You are philosophizing again," said Thranduil with a quirked eyebrow, before his features softened and he smiled for a moment.

"Alright. A step forward then, into the unknown?"

"So be it," said Elrond as he held up his goblet and tapped it against the king's.

"So be it," replied Thranduil, the smallest spark of hope igniting in his frosty eyes.

…

Legolas waited for Elrohir to emerge from the bush. He had emptied his stomach once more, hopefully for the last, grimaced the prince to himself. His Noldorin friend was not accustomed to the venom and the last few hours of escape had been grim for him.

He had staggered and then leant heavily upon his friend's shoulders. He had vomited and endured the worse headache he had ever had in his life.

But they could not stop, for the thudding feet of many orcs was gaining on them, and however much Legolas had tried to shake their trail, the noise they had made had rendered his efforts futile.

"We must leave," he said, standing to meet his swaying friend.

"I know," came the miserable answer.

"Come, Doran will surely be close to our group by now. Just a few more hours Elrohir, and you will be enjoying our Silvan healer's home remedies for spider toxin. You may learn something!" he added cheerfully.

But Elrohir simply clung to his friend and concentrated on maintaining himself upright. "I hope you are right, because at this pace, my friend, you know it is a matter of minutes before we are caught…you must leave me…"

Taú did not answer him though. He simply adjusted the added weight of his suffering friend, and made away into the trees once more, praying that his own words were true. 'Doran, do not fail me. Make _haste_…' he begged silently.


	7. Chapter 7

Hello everyone.

Firstly, I am really sorry I have not had time to answer your reviews. This is totally OOC for me and it will not happen again. I love answering your comments and I know you all realize how much I appreciate them.

Some have been especially generous and I cannot thank you all enough for your words of encouragement and motivation.

I promise to answer each and every one from now on.

I hope you all enjoy this new installment, and please, please don't kill me. It is not my time

Chapter seven

Muscles stretched beyond all reasonable limits, and a dull ache radiated incessantly down his back to the tips of his feet, interrupted only by the sharp twinge of pain from his wrists.

They had been hunted and, inevitably caught, only to be beaten to the floor and trussed up like Yule game.

Not that Elrohir remembered much of it, though, for he had been only half conscious, slung over Legolas' strong shoulders.

He remembered the violent rocking and could only imagine how his friend had managed to keep hold of him as he ran through the brush. It had not been about escaping, but about making time, time their unit needed to find them.

It had not lasted long though, for he had been dropped unceremoniously to the ground, and the overwhelming stench of orc stung his nose, bringing back the nausea that already assailed him.

A shuffling noise off to his left had then brought him back to awareness, but then a dull thud heralded his return to darkness – until now.

His eyelids felt heavy and his eyes were sluggish to focus. Spider venom, yes, he remembered. He shivered and then the memory of his lost cloak came back to him; '_stupid Noldo!_' he said to himself.

Slowly, he turned his pounding head to the left and saw Legolas – nay Taú, he reminded himself, and he wondered if he was tied up in the same fashion.

His friend lay face down, his arms tied at the elbows, sitting high, too high. Yes, that must have been the way it was for him, too, for the pain fit the unnatural position.

One leg was tied to a stake in the ground, albeit the rope was long enough to allow some movement.

He moved his own limb to test this theory but it was tied to the other, not the same then. A roughness behind him filled in the rest of the picture for him. While Elrohir was tied against a tree, Taú had been taken a few feet away for whatever it was the orcs had done to him.

'Have I missed something?' He wondered with a frown, for his friend did not move at all, and his clothing was ripped here and there. If only he would turn around and Elrohir could see his face.

"Tau?" he whispered, keeping his eye on the enemy camp around them, and specifically on the group of orcs that sat some distance away.

"Tau!" he tried again, his eyes slipping to the side, lest he catch some small movement through the corner of his eye.

Nothing

"Tau, wake up!" he whispered with growing concern, watching as a lumbering great orc strode towards them.

"Wake up, wake up _now_," he hissed, and the orc smiled crookedly, its rotting teeth leaving the confines of its wet, leathery lips as it tapped its wooden club against its other, clawed hand.

"Tau?" …

…..

He had tracked as he ran, and now, Doran could not talk for lack of air. He had, indeed, run like the winds of November, and now he sat amidst Benar's group, who crouched around him with expectant faces.

"We must leave now – they are in the hands of the enemy," he gasped.

It was all it took, and they were away, cantering after a still panting Doran as he guided them towards the enemy and their captive friends.

Noldo, Silvan and Avari were no longer aware of the differences between them, only of what now brought them all together.

Glorfindel chewed on the inside of his cheek. He had accepted the responsibility of ensuring Elrohir's well-being, even though Legolas had already done so, and now his young lord was in the hands of the enemy. They had to move fast; no one could resist for long as a captive of the orcs, least of all elves.

He glanced over at Benar, who leaned over his horse's head, his chestnut hair streaming behind him. Their eyes met for a brief moment and although they said nothing at all, their growing concern could not be veiled.

….

The evening was warm, and the two lords sat in a secluded garden, sharing a light meal and a fruity, fresh white wine.

Elrond had been patient, as patient as he could be, at least, but it seemed to him that now was the time to ask.

"Thranduil?"

"Um…?" replied the king as he leant back in his chair and spread his legs before him, tilting his fair head to the fading sun.

"What is it?"

"What is what?" murmured the king.

"This thing you have that belongs to me," said Elrond lightly, trying to make his question sound casual and care-free. He failed miserably, though.

Thranduil sat up in his chair, his eyes meeting those of Elrond for a moment before he refilled their goblets.

"Some years ago, there was another great battle, one I know you are aware of."

"The Battle of Five Armies," confirmed Elrond, accepting the wine Thranduil slid towards him.

"Yes," said the king quietly, his own memories coming to the fore before he ruthlessly pushed them aside.

"I accepted to help our human allies, but not for the reasons you may think…" he said, watching Elrond's eyes carefully.

"I helped them because it benefited me to do so, at least that is what I thought at the time. I was wrong, Elrond."

"What was your purpose? The one you say was wrong?"

Silence followed Elrond's question, but it was finally broken as the king stood and walked a short distance away from their shared table, his velvet cloak flaring behind him.

"I lost something…a relic, a _symbol_," he added. "I almost reclaimed it during a diplomatic mission to Erebor, but I was taunted, Elrond. The dwarves showed me what I sought, placed it within my reach, only to take it away. I swear their king was smirking when I looked back at him and it boiled my blood."

"Go on," prompted Elrond, intrigued with the story that was unfolding quite unexpectedly.

"I accepted to help the humans with the sole purpose of regaining our lost patrimony, indeed I would have retreated after the first skirmishes had it not been for the arrival of the remaining armies. There was no longer a choice to be had and so I led my people to battle once more."

"Your initial reasoning may have been selfish, but you did the right thing eventually," said Elrond somewhat drolly, well aware of the chance he had taken with his comment.

"You do not mince words, do you Noldo?" said the king sarcastically.

Elrond smirked and lifted his goblet in salute.

"Yet that is the truth. But you see," he continued, sitting once more, "sometimes, the heart can be the cruelest of mistresses – the catalyst of the greatest, most noble acts, and the harbinger of torture, death and destruction…"

"Well-said," murmured Elrond quietly.

"My heart screamed at my mind to take back what was ours – nay _mine_," he hissed and for a moment Elrond was taken aback at the ferocity in his voice.

"I would have waged a _war_ – in exchange for the ceremonial jewels of the Queen of Greenwood…. "

Elrond sat stock still, his eyes searching Thranduil as he processed the king's words.

No one spoke, and Elrond observed the play of emotions. Guilt, shame, challenge, pride.

"Not war for jewels, Thranduil. You would have waged a war for the sentiments they evoke. You did it for what they _represent_, not for what they _are_."

Thranduil held Elrond's gaze and a look of satisfaction came over his extraordinary face.

"Yes – yes, that is _exactly_ it, Elrond, which brings me to your initial question.

What is it that I have, which belongs to you…"

They had come full circle it seemed, although Elrond still failed to understand what Thranduil meant.

The king reached into the folds of his robes, extending his now closed fist over the table until it rested before Elrond's tingling fingers.

"I would not wish for anyone to feel the way I do – did – about the white gems. It gnaws at my heart and eats at my resolve to not hate the dwarves for withholding them from me, for keeping from me that which represents the purest of sentiments, the love of two, kindred souls…" he whispered.

Thranduil opened his fist, and at the centre of his palm, rested a single silver band.

For a moment, Elrond simply stared at it, unable to comprehend what lay there. Leaning forward in curiosity, he cocked his head in order to better read the etchings that lay along the inside of the ring in flowing, elegant Tengwar.

"Eternally…"

"If you look on the other side, there is the proof you may be seeking…" said Thranduil softly.

Hesitantly, Elrond reached out and plucked the ring from the king's outstretched hand and held it up before his still disbelieving eyes, his eyebrows furrowing in thought.

"It looks…"

"Elrond…"

His flesh tingled as the information finally began to register. The word, the family names – there could be no doubt about it.

This was Celebrian's wedding ring, the one he himself had had made for Galadriel's daughter.

His eyes watered and he looked up at Thranduil as if seeing him for the first time.

"How…"

"Our warriors collect the items of worth the orcs carry with them. They bring them back for the good of the people, but when something like this is found – it is always returned."

A sense of peace and closure came upon the lord of Imladris as he rolled the silver in his hand. She had worn it for so many years, through so many trials and tribulations; through births, deaths and celebrations. She had not once taken it off…and when she had been attacked, she had talked and cried incessantly for her lost treasure.

"Funny, is it not," said Thranduil carefully, "that a _ring_ should bring us together."

Elrond looked at Thranduil, and said the only words that would come to him, however strange they had seemed to Thranduil at the time.

"…_and perhaps it will not be the only one_…"

…

Elrohir cringed as the sound of flesh striking flesh resounded in his ears once more.

A grunt of what he could only describe as frustration followed it, and at last, the horrid sound stopped.

Elrohir held his breath, and craned his neck as much as he could, given his awkward position.

Two, deformed orcs dragged a silent Tau back to Elrohir's position at the tree line by the collar of his ripped shirt, for his tunic had long since disappeared.

A thick rope was tied around his middle, and then the tree behind, but as an orc made to bind his arms behind their victim, the other stopped him with a harsh grunt.

Elrohir was not ignorant to their speech, for he and his brother had tracked and slain enough of them to have picked up a rudimentary knowledge of their vocabulary, and what this orc now said was clear enough…

_Archer…_

Elrohir could only watch as he strained his ears and his rusty orcish, wondering what they were discussing – if the gruff exchange could be called that - and as they growled and articulated strange clicks and other such unnatural sounds, his healer eyes strayed to Tau.

He had slumped forward, but from his breathing, Elrohir knew he was conscious. He seemed exhausted, unable to function in the normal waking manner, but he was not oblivious and he gave thanks for that small thing.

Although as he searched, he wondered if unconsciousness would not have been better for his friend.

'_What have I missed,'_ he wondered again, for his friend had taken a beating, and it seemed that the orcs had grown bored with it.

It was then that the animalistic exchange abruptly ended, and one orc returned to their limp victim. The other, however, moved away.

Turning back to his friend with mounting trepidation, Elrohir watched in dumb disbelief as the orc stood behind the tree and held Legolas' arms over his drooping head.

_What…_

Clasping both wrists in one clawed hand, the other held the long, strong fingers flat against the bark, and Elrohir's head snapped to the other orc, the one that now stood a distance away, a black bow in its hands and a dozen more orcs behind him.

_No…_

The jeering became louder as the orc archer tensed his bow and sighted along the thick shaft.

_They are going to execute him…_

Elrohir's breathing accelerated and his eyes bulged in disbelief, and then panic.

_NO!_

The orc archer roared in delight, the arrow poised to fly.

In hindsight, Elrohir would describe the moment as a blur. The arrow flew straight, slowly – so much so that Elrohir's eyes could even make out the details of the crudely crafted projectile, the iron head, the specks of dust that flew around it as it sliced through the thick air.

It was not until it was but inches from its target, that its speed seemed normal once more and Elrohir closed his watering eyes in desperation.

A pained cry filled the glade and Elrohir felt his heart jump to his throat.

His eyes opened on reflex, but they did not see what he had expected, for Tau was still alive, albeit he had pressed his head into the bark of the tree, his own blood dripping on to his long blond hair.

_His hands…_

_Archer…_

…..

Doran raised a hand and gestured for silence as Benar appeared beside him.

There, see that glade – they are there," he said in a harsh whisper, his eyes full of anguish, born of not being able to stay beside his friend, his prince, in spite of the certainty of what would happen, and Benar placed a brotherly hand upon his shoulder.

"You did what you had to, Doran."

"Did I?" he asked bitterly.

"Oh yes. It takes courage to flee when one is brave…" he said with a subtle smile on his face.

"Let's go and get him," he added finally, and Doran, with a sad smile, nodded, and then turned his eyes to Glorfindel who had silently joined them.

"What is your plan?" he asked quietly as he strained his eyes towards the glade.

"We dismount now, continue on foot and approach as close as we may. We assess the situation and only then will we decide. I will have Arnuí set up his camp here, it will save time once the enemy has been neutralized.

Glorfindel glanced over at the Avarin healer, and the large packs that had been strung to his saddle.

Nodding in consent, his face hardened and his eyes narrowed. "Lead the way, Captain. We will get your prince back, and my lord's son – at _whatever_ cost."

"_At whatever cost_," echoed Benar. "You sound Silvan," he added.

Glorfindel simply smiled wickedly, leaving them all to wonder if he had taken that as an insult or a complement.

'Well', mused Benar as they walked into the brush silently, 'we will soon find out.'


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you once again, for all your wonderful comments, favorites and follows. And to the guests that I cannot answer personally.

Chapter eight

_What have I missed?_

His head jerked forward, the movement waking him in an instant, as panic burnt its way up his chest and into his throat.

He had fallen asleep, in spite of his desperate attempts to keep watch over his suffering companion.

His head snapped to Taú, whose head rested against the bark of the tree he was tied to, that his hands were nailed to with the thick shaft of the orc archer.

Elrohir had tried to keep his friend awake so that his body did not pull on his skewered hands and rip the muscle and tendons even more than they already had been. Damn it, he had failed and had succumbed to the pull of slumber, for his body was still weak after being stung by a woodland spider.

Luckily, Taú had, by some miracle, managed to remain upright. It was a small mercy though, for his damaged hands had bled profusely and his forearms had turned a worrying shade of purple.

Blood covered half of his head from where it had dripped down his arms, and the signs of beatings where more than plain to see.

_What have I missed?_

"Taú," whispered Elrohir, wondering if the prince was sleeping. He was not.

"Yes," he answered through a clenched jaw.

"Can you feel your arms? Your hands?" asked the healer urgently.

"No," he laughed, and then immediately sobered. "Is it too late?" he asked Elrohir, a hint of vulnerability seeping into his tone. There was no need to elaborate, for Elrond's son knew exactly what his friend was referring to. The lack of circulation was a danger in itself, and the injury he had sustained – there was a real possibility that his friend would lose the use of his hands.

"I do not know, Taú."

Silence passed between them, but it was promptly broken by the shrill cry of an owl.

"They are here," said Taú tiredly.

Elrohir searched the bush around them, the trees above, but could see nothing at all.

"_Where?"_ hissed Elrohir as he tugged on his tied arms.

"Behind us, Elrohir. They approach from behind."

Feeling stupid, Elrohir craned his neck as far as it would stretch, and before long, he had spotted Benar, almost completely camouflaged between the branches, his eyes fierce. They would be fiercer still once he saw what had been done to his commanding officer…

"Should they cut me lose," murmured Taú, "I will be useless to fight…"

"I know, my friend, I know. I will not be at my best either mind you. Those spiders of yours are most unpleasant – my head still feels like a ball of cotton."

Taú giggled, in spite of his plight.

"What a sorry sight we must be," he ground out. "With some luck, my hands will not be chopped off by Arnuí and we can both laugh at our venture. The spiders, your _cloak_…" he trailed off tauntingly.

Elrohir smiled in spite of his growing concern for his friend. He was hanging on by a thread, and yet the thought of enjoying cups with him again, the easy banter they shared, the deep understanding they had, the one for the other… a surge of resolve rocked his body and gave him strength where moments before there had been none. He would get his friend back to his father, repair his hands if there was any way of doing so – he would restore Taú to what he had been before, the strong, fiery war prince the people of the wood adored and respected.

"Your blade lies behind you. If you are capable, protect him but _do not_ join the fray."

Elrohir jumped at the sudden voice but inches from his ear, a testimony to his still sluggish senses. _Glorfindel…_

No, he would not join the fray, in spite of his mentor's concerns. Those days of recklessness had passed, thanks to Legolas.

The pull on his hands and arms was suddenly released and the presence behind him vanished. Elrohir braced himself for what was to come, grimacing as his blood-starved limbs prickled and cramped painfully.

Slowly, he fumbled behind him for the blade Glorfindel had left him, relief flooding him when the heavy pommel fit perfectly in his hand, the weight of it reassuring him, and with one last look at Taú, his jaw clenched and his grey eyes slanted dangerously.

He would avenge his friend, by all the Valar he would slaughter them _all_ for their senseless cruelty…

And as the caw of a crow echoed around the glade, Elrohir stood slowly, standing tall and proud as his short sword came up before him, glinting in the midday sun, his grey Noldorin eyes filled with the promise of revenge.

….

He could hardly see through the mist, the images beyond it fuzzy and incomplete, colors muted and sparkled.

His own hand came into focus for a moment and he was able to see it once more; the silver band that had been returned to him, the one the enemy had taken for its own, as a trophy, a reward for its conquest over Elvendom. They had taken the Silver Lady of Imladris, and in doing so, had all but destroyed his soul, had sent his sons into a spiral of self-destruction as they strove for the vengeance that would never satisfy them.

But all that had changed. The passage of time had tempered Elrond's grief and left him with a deep, throbbing sense of loss, yet even so, he was now able to control it for the most part. She had not died that day and the Valar permitting, she would be restored to her former self across the sea.

As for his sons, Elladan had not been able to control his brother. It had taken the friendship of a half-blooded Silvan to save his youngest twin and this, in turn, had led to Thranduil's invitation and the return of Celebrian's wedding band.

He smiled albeit his lips quivered and the mist returned to his eyes. It didn't matter though, for Elrond sat alone, there was no reason to feel ashamed. Now, he could give free reign to his heart, for even the Noldor cry…

…

A long, guttural scream was all that followed Glorfindel's sword as it whirled in a wide arc to his left.

Swiveling upon his heals, he sliced an orc's head from its shoulders in one, clean swipe, the power behind it sending the steel far to his right.

He had meant to cut Legolas loose, but one look at Thranduil's son told him there was nothing he could have done save to provide Elrohir with his sword and hope he would be capable of defending them both.

Ire burned in his eyes as he stabbed his next opponent in its gaping mouth, and then cut the arm off another. It was cruelty and he knew it, but he _was_ in control, knew exactly how far he could go, and when to stop.

But not yet. With an elven battle cry he ran towards the next unfortunate beast, slicing into its belly at the most vulnerable spot, spilling its innards before beheading it.

And so Glorfindel continued to slaughter and mutilate, seeking to inflict the greatest amount of suffering, rather than give the customary clean death he was honor-bound to execute.

There were none left and he stood panting, his mighty sword dripping dark blood, his eyes afire with the frenzy that had taken him.

Turning, he came face to face with Benar. The Silvan captain stared evenly at the ancient lord of Gondolin, before bowing from the waist, and with one last, lingering look of respect, he trotted away to where Doran and Elrohir crouched beside Taú.

Arnuí knelt in front of Legolas, his eyes shrewdly assessing the damage to his hands.

"We must pull the arrow out of the tree but not his hands…" began the Avarin healer.

"I concur," said Elrohir. "Once the tip is out, we can take off the head and then extract the shaft," he concluded.

"I am not sure, my lord. We are close to the stronghold. It may be wise to leave the shaft until we are home, where we can better assess the damage."

Elrohir remained silent for a moment and Glorfindel watched him from behind. Elrond's son could be impetuous and little-given to logical reasoning, but when it came to healing, Elrohir was a mirror image of his father.

"Your words are wise, Arnuí. The time it will take us to get back is not significant for any more damage to be done, I would wager. We have more to lose should we attempt to extract it now.

Arnui nodded, before placing his fingers under his prince's chin.

He spoke in a heavily accented dialect that Glorfindel could hardly follow, save for a few words here and there. He was just thankful that the young prince was answering the healer.

Glorfindel turned then to Elrohir, who was slowly rising to his feet.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," he said, a hint of surprise, before his knees buckled and Glorfindel caught him before he could crumple to the ground.

"Elrohir!"

"Nay, 'tis nothing, Glorfindel. It is the last of the spider venom. It had me in a daze for much of the time, but they did not touch _me_ at all - they seemed much more interested in torturing Taú."

Glorfindel's brow furrowed, for this was most inconsistent with orcish behavior. They would toy with one until it was spoiled and then move on to the next. But he would not press that matter for the moment, albeit the seed of suspicion had been firmly planted in his mind.

Elrohir turned one more to the macabre scene that unfolded under the tree where they had been held captive, and could only steel himself as the arrow was eased out of the wood, his friend's cries flowing over him as only a healer could do. Doran, however, was another matter, for his eyes were too bright and his jaw was clenched so tight Elrohir rather thought he may lose a tooth.

"Doran," he called. "We will get him back safely…" he assured.

"Yes," said the Silvan. "But look at his hands, Elrohir. He is an archer, a peerless warrior," he said, and then reddened a little before adding, "well, almost," he smiled ruefully as his eyes glanced over Glorfindel.

"Doran. My father is the greatest healer on Arda. I promise you, if this can be done, we will see it done."

"I know of the wisdom of the Noldo, Elrohir. I just wonder if this time, it will be enough."

"It will be," he said, squeezing the warrior's shoulder. "It has to be…" he trailed off.

…

Thranduil was pacing. He had been left with a bad feeling after his son's departure the previous morning.

Legolas had not agreed with his strategy yet Thranduil had not yielded. They could not afford to undergo two simultaneous missions with so few warriors and Legolas had left in anger.

He sighed and then sat heavily on the chair behind his desk.

It was not the first time they had differed, and it certainly would not be the last, for his son was fiery, as much as his own father had been. He would speak his mind – the mind of a warrior, and Thranduil would speak his own – that of a king.

In truth they complimented each other perfectly, for his son had turned out to be the finest warrior the Greenwood had ever seen, with a strong character and an acute sense of honor this multi-cultural society connected with.

They would fight and wave their hands at each other, in private of course, but they always worked it out in the end, and despite their different perspectives on leadership, Thranduil knew his son was faithful to his king above all other things.

His proud smile froze upon his serene face and his eyes grew distant. It was just a moment, over before he had really known what had interrupted his thoughts.

With a furrowed brow, he left his office and made his way to the throne room, his step quickening until he was striding down the candle-lit corridors, that is until he came chest to chest with Elrond.

Both stopped abruptly with surprised faces and billowing hair.

"Something is wrong…" they said together, and two sets of eyebrows rose again in disbelief.

"Come," bid Thranduil as he walked, slower now, towards the Throne Room. They had not been wrong, for two scouts stood breathing heavily as they reported to the duty captain.

"… two hours. Prince Legolas rides with Arnuí, and Lord Elrohir with Lord Glorfindel. The captain listened, his head turning to his king and Elrond as he did so.

"Warn the healers, prepare a unit to ride out and protect. Report to me when they cross the threshold," ordered the captain, to which Thranduil nodded.

"What has gone wrong," said Thranduil, almost to himself. "What did I miss …"

"Nothing. You missed nothing," said Elrond as he steered the king towards the open balcony doors.

"You cannot predict everything, Thranduil, but this, you already know."

"Yes, I know," he confirmed as both lords stepped out onto the overhang. It afforded the lords a stunning view over the Greenwood, that part of it that was still green, lush and healthy, and Elrond gasped at the beauty of it.

"You did not expect to see this, did you?" said Thranduil knowingly. "This is how it was, centuries ago. Most of us still remember those days of glory. It is what we fight for, what we die for."

"I am – speechless and – _humbled_," said Elrond in surprise. "All those books of wisdom, all those tomes of lore and maps and artistry – they sit in a corner of my library in Imladris. I have not touched them for many, many years."

"I am a _fool_," he whispered as his eyes registered every towering tree, the canopy of life they now stood over instead of under. He spied every river and lake, every plain and prairie, the distant mountain…

Thranduil turned his head towards Elrond, studying his profile for a moment, his eyes briefly slipping to his hand that gripped the wooden railing before them, the sparkle of polished silver upon his finger.

How wrong he had been. He had taken the Noldo as arrogant and prejudiced – and he _was_, but – it was not innate but acquired, acquired over years of hardship and lack of communication, circumstances which Thranduil himself was partly to blame for.

"Then we have come a long way," said Thranduil with a smile.

"Yes," said Elrond, turning towards him now. "Yes we have, my friend."

And so they stood in peaceful silence, until they were interrupted by shouts from below, and the mighty gates of the Greenwood groaned as they split and turned inwards, their sound mimicking the dread in two fathers' hearts at what they would reveal.

A silent glance at each other was all it took, and as one, they strode away, towards the courtyard, leaving behind the serenity of the last acres of the Greenwood, poised as if in silent expectation.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter nine

The gates of the Fortress of the Greenwood sat open, now silent witnesses to the scene taking place within.

The unit of warriors had arrived with various injured, amongst them, their own prince and Elrond's son, who although seemed conscious and completely aware, was somewhat whiter than was natural, and his eyes were a little glassy. Any Silvan would know the signs, and although the venom had almost completely passed through his system, it had left him weak and shaky, however much he was not admitting to that right now.

He was hovering, he knew, but he couldn't help it. Legolas was his friend but their bond had been special since first they had set eyes on each other. And then their fleeting captivity had brought them even closer together – he just could not walk away to his own bed now, not until he knew the healer's prognosis.

Elrond was beside him no sooner he turned around, coming face to face with his father who searched him with his eyes from head to boots.

"What is it?" he asked. "How are you hurt?" His voice was clipped but even, authoritative, impossible to ignore.

"Spider venom. I am alright!" he added quickly when his father's eyes widened.

"No one is alright after spider poisoning, my Lord," said a Silvan healer, who extended a small vial he indicated Elrohir should take.

"Swallow it all in one go, my Lord. In _one_…"

"Alright, alright. If you think it is necessary."

"Cramps, night sweats, fever, vomiting, diarrhea, migraine, tremors…"

"Yes, yes!" Elrohir held up his hand, visibly whiter than he had been before, uncorked the vial and threw it down his throat, under the careful scrutiny of his father.

"Now, my Lord. You must rest for a few hours, and then eat something light."

"Thank you, healer," said Elrond, nodding at the young Silvan who bowed deeply.

"It is my greatest pleasure, Lord Elrond."

They watched him move on to the next warrior, before Elrond turned back to his son.

"You heard him. Go and rest."

"I cannot. You must see Taú's hands, father. I will not rest until you tell me he will not lose them."

"_Lose_ them? What…"

"I will tell you everything, father, just please – go to Arnuí – he will need you before the day is through."

With a scowl, Elrond left in search of the head healer, nodding his silent command at Glorfindel who stood nearby.

"Elrohir," saluted the blond warrior as he came to stand beside Elrond's son.

"Glorfindel."

"What happened out there?" he asked quietly.

"For the most part, what Doran has undoubtedly reported to you already, but there is a gap in my memory – something I have missed. It haunts me and will not come back to me."

Glorfindel's eyes narrowed a little, before he continued.

"There is something strange about the way things played out, I will give you that. Why did they not touch you?"

"I do not know," said Elrohir, his eyes now boring into Glorfindel. "I do not know, but it is surely related to that which will not come to me."

"You should rest," said the ancient lord. "There will be no news on Legolas' condition for a while yet."

Elrohir breathed deeply, for Glorfindel was right, and the heaviness of his eyelids told him the potion he had taken was already taking effect.

"Will you promise to keep me informed immediately? I must sleep but it will not be easy with my mind on Taú in there."

"I promise. Now go to your rooms. I will find you later."

With a smile, Elrohir left, and Glorfindel turned into the halls of healing, pulling off his gloves and wiggling his fingers, returning the reverent bows he received from the warriors he passed along the way.

Their gazes lingered upon him and he knew why that was. He had let slip a little of his own, self-control during the battle, had shown the Silvan and Avari, the full measure of his skill.

Yet ire had driven him to cruelty. Did they still revere him, or where they simply scared of him?

…..

Rope bit into his reddened skin, his shoulders throbbed and his head pained him. The sound of cloth dragging over the ground opened his eyes and he saw his friend, bloodied upon the forest floor.

"Taú… No! Stop!" He shouted, to no avail, for they jeered and laughed and kicked his friend in the side.

"Leave him!" Commanded Elrohir in the most authoritative tone he could muster, but again, it was met with another kick to an already curled up Taú.

"Listen! You don't know who I am – you can…·

"_No!_" came the hoarse cry from Taú, who was now half sitting up.

"I am Elrond's son – take me, stop…"

"_No_! He _lies!_" shouted Taú, watching as the orcs began to converge upon Elrohir.

"I am Thranduilion…" said Taú, slowly, almost a growl.

There were hisses and jeers and roars of delight as the beasts turned from Elrohir and back to Tau, and Elrohir could do nothing, for however much he shouted out his own, exalted family name, Taú was _Thranduil's_ son – the Battle Prince – they would know him well, and hate him just as much.

He could not compete…

"_No!"_

"Elrohir!"

The noise was too close and he jerked, his eyes snapping open to find Glorfindel bending over him worriedly.

"You dream…"

Elrohir stared on dumbly for a moment, waiting for his mind to catch up with what he had just dreamed, indeed on the fact that he had been dreaming.

"Valar…" he breathed as he raked one shaking hand through his black locks.

"What is it?" asked Glorfindel, taking a seat beside the bed.

"Taú…"

"Well, that is what I came to…"

"No, I mean – I mean I _remember_. I remember what it is I missed. It has come to me in a dream…"

"Go on…" asked Glorfindel, leaning forward.

"_Damn it_! He barked as he threw the sheets off and swung his legs over the side of the bed, now face to face with his mentor.

"He blew his cover!"

"What?"

"He blew his cover to save _me_, to stop them from taking _me_, damn that Silvan _savage_! I will have his _guts_! I swear…" roared Elrohir.

Glorfindel straightened until his back was rigid. "That is why they were so cruel to him…"

"_Yes!"_ he shouted as he stood and dressed himself.

"Now you had better tell me what has happened at the halls of healing and pray I do not _kill_ him myself when I get there!"

"Calm down, Elrohir. You are angry because he sacrificed himself for you. Now ask yourself, would you not have done the same for him?"

"I do not _know_!" he shouted.

"Yes – you would have. This I know," said Glorfindel calmly, his eyes knowing. "I do not say his actions are frequent for they are not. Self-sacrifice is the ultimate act of love, but then again – your friendship with Legolas is no ordinary bond. I share that bond with Elrond, had the same bond with Ecthelion. It is a blessing Elrohir, one the Valar surely have fixed their sights upon."

Glorfindel's words had calmed him somewhat, but that did not mean he would not be having serious words with the wood elf…

"Yes, I know you are right," said Elrohir softly. "It is as you say – I cannot explain it at all…"

"You are kindred spirits, of like mind and wit. Brothers in all but blood," said Glorfindel with a soft smile on his face, lighting it up and making him look young once more.

Elrohir smiled back, for it was not every day that Glorfindel showed this side of himself. It was a privilege, a blessing to have one such as he at his side – this fierce, wise, strong warrior with a heart softer than a mother's kiss.

….

He had completely refused to lie down, and so he sat in a plush chair, naked save for the light gown he had been given.

Everything had been seen to – wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, his hair had been scrubbed clean, and his hands now sat upon a stone table where Elrond and the Silvan healers crowded round, discussing how best to extract the thick orc shaft that joined both hands in a macabre embrace .

Every now and then, one would reach out and touch the wound and Legolas would either grit his teeth and bear it, or hiss should they pull on it – he had also completely ran out of Avarin expletives.

Thranduil watched it all from afar, standing in a corner together with Doran and Benar, and Elrond was glad of it, for the two warriors had fussed over their friend to the point of annoyance, and the king had asked endless questions which curiously all required the same answer… '_will he lose the use of his hands_?'

Arnuí had been circumspect to say the least, but his skepticism had easily been perceived by Thranduil. And then the other healers had shaken their heads in dismay and had all but voiced their doubts on the matter.

Elrond knew the effort the king made as he stood there, watching from afar. He just wished he had something comforting to say, but he did not…

"My Lord," he said, as he left the table and approached Thranduil.

"Elrond…" he said, stepping forward.

"I am concerned about the long-term effects of this injury, I cannot lie to you," he began, watching the slight flicker in the king's eyes.

"I can, however, operate to remove the shaft and there is a technique I can use to try to reconstruct the damage done. However, there is an apparatus I require in order to carry out this task – I will need the help of your engineers…"

"You have it, anything you need."

"Send them to me, my Lord, there is work to be done."

"Just, just tell me there is some hope … however distant…"

"There is hope, Thranduil," said Elrond softly. "I will do everything in my power so that Legolas may wage war upon the enemy once more."

Their eyes locked until Thranduil nodded. "Put your Noldorin wisdom to work, Elrond," and then he was away in a swirl of silk and velvet, Benar on his heels.

Turning back to the stone table, Elrond clapped his hands, gaining everyone's immediate attention.

"I will operate on Prince Legolas this evening, as soon as the optical equipment I require has been devised. Arnuí, will you assist?"

"Of course, my Lord. It would be my greatest privilege, we are all at your disposal, for whatever you need," said the Avarin healer, and Elrond watched as the others nodded, their faces clearly showing their turmoil and controlled despair, their _hope_ in Elrond's abilities.

This child was well-loved indeed and, with every day he spent in the Mirkwood, nay the Greenwood, he saw just why that was.

…

Late afternoon saw Elrond with Thranduil's engineers as they mounted the strange apparatus the lord had explained to them, and not far away, Legolas sat in his chair, his hands bandaged before him, and Elrohir, Glorfindel and Doran at his side.

Elrohir had opted not to tell Legolas what he now knew until after the operation, and Glorfindel had thought it an excellent idea.

Legolas was as white as December snow, offering but a half-hearted smile here and there at something they said, but his pain was clear to see, and it did not help to hear the metallic clicks and scrapes coming from the nearby table, upon which the strange contraption sat ominously.

Elrohir knew what it was, of course, but Legolas did not.

"Legolas, it is a vision enhancer. It lends the eye a closer view of that which would otherwise be invisible…"

"How…" came the shaky, insecure voice, and Elrohir continued.

"The surgeon places his head inside the curved top area, and then secures de apparatus over the area to be operated on. He can then see, and repair – 'tis simple and yet saves so many lives."

"There is nothing simple about simplicity," said Doran, and suddenly, all eyes were upon him, even Elrond's who worked at the table.

"Well said, young one, well said," was all the healer said with respect. "Now come, it is time.." he announced, as he placed the strange object over his head, positioning the lenses before his eyes and causing him to squint.

It was a pivotal moment, and yet Benar had not the willpower to stifle the snort that escaped him, for he rather thought Elrond looked like a massive, Noldorin fly.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's note: sorry for the long delay my friends, but here is the penultimate chapter of the Wise Ones. As always, I look forward to your comments!

Chapter 10

Hours later, Legolas lay in his bed, still under the effects of the sleeping herbs Elrond had instructed he be fed.

On one side of the bed, sat an introspective Elrohir and on the other, a healer mixed powders and dried herbs rhythmically as his eyes watched his patient.

It had taken his father hours to first separate the archer's hands, and then repair the damage done to them. The Silvan healers had aided him and their apprentices had stood in the background, quietly conversing and taking notes on the strange procedure, in awe of the intricacy of it, the sheer wisdom the Noldorin healer was, unwittingly, transmitting; all thoughts of arrogant, condescending Noldo far, far away in their minds, replaced now with simple gratefulness and respect.

Elrond had mechanically dictated the steps he had taken and the reasoning behind them as he worked, almost as if he spoke to himself, and as for Thranduil, he had sat in the waiting area beyond the door, aware that his presence would serve no purpose, and yet unable to completely remove himself.

That had been hours ago and Elrond had left to rest, leaving behind him a team of awe-struck Silvan healers and a proud son.

Elrohir smiled softly, timidly, for there was still no guarantee that Legolas' hands would be fully functional. It was a sobering thought and his smile slipped once more.

"You are more handsome when you smile, Noldo," came the soft voice from the bed. A stifled snort escaped the healer, who promptly schooled his features and checked his patient before moving away.

"And you – with your Silvan mouth shut!" answered a smiling Elrohir, happy to hear the giggle from his friend.

"Water?" croaked a still groggy Legolas. However, a healer had already anticipated the request and fed the cool liquid to his patient.

With a long, satisfied sigh, Legolas lay back, allowing his eyes to drift shut for a moment, before they slipped open again, a question on his parched lips.

"Did it – did it work?" he asked, a hint of vulnerability slipping into his normally confident, authoritative voice.

"That I cannot say yet, my friend. The procedure went well, but only time will tell if you will regain the full use of your skilled hands, Legolas. We must wait, and stay positive."

"Easier said than done, do you not think?" murmured Legolas as he licked his dry lips.

"Yes, much easier – no doubt. Yet I am right, this you know."

"Yes, yes I do know – for the Noldor are wise indeed, and I say this for the first time without reserve, without irony – I am most grateful to your Lord father for his service…"

"Well, you can tell him that yourself, Legolas…" smirked Elrohir as his eyes latched on to this father, who approached the bed with a complacent smile on his still sleepy face.

"You are most welcome, young prince.." said Elrond with a slow nod of his head.

Legolas smiled placidly at the imposing Noldo, yet now, the mighty healer did not seem imperious, arrogant and lofty at all – he looked more… like a father.

"How are you feeling this morning?" he asked as one, perfectly manicured hand reached out to lay over Legolas' forehead.

"Better, much better, indeed I believe I may be able to leave my bed…"

"Oh – leave that to _me_, young warrior. Not just yet. Tomorrow, if you are lucky _AND_ your father does not see you," replied Elrond with a playful smirk on his face.

Elrohir, however, simply watched, for he knew this tone his father had adopted with his friend. Read literally, it meant, _'calm down, let me look, and prepare for anything…'_

"Let me see your hands," said the healer matter of factly as he sat beside the bed and began to unravel the generous lengths of white linen they had been wrapped in.

As he did so, and silence had fallen in the room, Glorfindel entered, walking straight over to the bed, his blue eyes trained upon Legolas, who had skillfully diverted his eyes from Elrond's probing eyes.

"Can you move your fingers?" asked the elf lord lightly.

Legolas' brow furrowed, and his fingers _did_ move. "Aye, though it smarts, my lord."

Elrond smiled.

"That is good – that is very good. You feel them, and they respond to your commands – there is much hope – for a _full_ recovery."

Legolas' eyes opened wide, and his mouth dropped slightly open.

"You speak the truth? 'Tis not a ploy to content me – you needn't…."

"Legolas," began Elrond, leaning forward to catch his patient's round, shaking eyes with his own, showing him the truth of his words.

"I am far too experienced to fall on such tactics. I speak the truth, I _always_ speak the truth."

Elrohir watched his friend as his father's words sunk in and his eyes returned to their normal size, and then the smile that slowly bloomed and widened until it revealed the pearly teeth behind his lips.

"I do not know what to say, I thought…"

"I know what you thought – it was a defense mechanism to cope with your anxiety."

"Yes, yes, I see that now," said Legolas softly, holding his unbandaged hands before his own eyes and inspecting them in fascination.

Elrond, Glorfindel and Elrohir smiled at the prince, reduced now to a child full of awe and wonder.

"How can I ever thank you?" whispered the archer.

"Well," began Elrond. "You already have…."

"What do you mean?" asked Legolas, his brow furrowing in confusion now.

"You saved my son," answered the healer simply.

Legolas stared back, obviously not having expected that, for indeed, how would Elrond know, how would anyone know of what he had done to spare his friend from torture?

"Legolas," continued the elf lord. "I am old, experienced, I am _Noldo_. I have a gift, young one. I see more than you are willing to reveal."

Legolas dipped his head and for a moment, and Elrohir felt sorry for him. It was only a moment though, for he had a long-overdue conversation to conduct with his friend, and this was the perfect time to do it.

Elrohir caught his father's eyes and silently asked to be left alone with his friend. A subtle nod was all he needed to know he had been understood and as his father left, Glorfindel cast him one, last, warning glance, to which Elrohir simply cocked his chin a little higher than it had been.

Once they were alone, Elrohir slowly turned back to the bed, fully intent on giving the crazy silvan an earful for his rash, impulsiveness, but when his eyes fell upon those of his friend's, his choice words left him.

"Elrohir – "

"Legolas – "

The two friends watched the play of emotions on their faces, before a soft smile broke the spell and Elrohir finally spoke.

"Just, just tell me _why_…"

"I am no healer, my friend. I would not have been able to help you – but you could help me – it was simple arithmetic."

Elrohir stared at his friend for a moment, before the words that had escaped him before, flew now, from his disbelieving mouth.

"Bat shit!"

"_What?!"_ said Legolas with a surprised smile on his face.

"Orc crap, bear piss, spider spit, spider snot…"

Legolas collapsed into hysterical laughter, falling sideways onto the bed, before finally finding the wind to speak.

"Where did you get _that_ vocabulary from?!" he exclaimed with another chuckle.

"From your crazy _warriors_, Legolas!" said Elrohir with a jab out the window. "Every third word is a swear word!"

"Alright! Alright!," laughed Legolas again, for it was true, the Silvan warriors of Mirkwood were brash and bold, and so very, very naughty.

…..

Lindir the bard, sat upon a small, wooden stool, in the middle of a deserted passageway. A large parchment sat upon his lap, and a quill hovered above it.

Lindir's long hair brushed over the crisp, yellow paper as his head tilted upwards once more to contemplate the beauty before him, a beauty that had trapped him into some kind of waking trance, for he had not been able to move away.

For hours, he had sat here, scribbling and admiring, thinking and fantasizing, wondering and musing on the figure that looked back at him.

She was so very lovely and the portrait had surely been rendered by a master, but that was not what had ensnared him into this strange state. It was her expression.

_Do you understand? Can you see?_ She seemed to be saying, and although Lindir did not understand it, the words came to him and he scribbled. He wrote all the things he knew not how he knew but _did,_ and the fine hairs on the back of his neck rose like a hedgehogs spines.

"Would that I could have known you, Queen of the Greenwood…"

…..

Some days had passed, and although Legolas was still convalescing, news of his full recovery had spread throughout the kingdom.

The Silvan and Avari had rejoiced with songs of victory and spontaneous celebration, while the Sindarin had had eloquent words for their king and prince, and a fair share of respectful bows to the Noldorin lords.

Elrohir and Glorfindel observed it all, and Elrond continued his talks with Thranduil, their relationship deepening into a semblance of friendship.

As for Legolas and Elrohir, their friendship blossomed and they were inseparable.

Thranduil had then declared a feast would be held, in honour of the visiting Noldor, who had restored to the Greenwood its prodigal child, and now, as they sat for the afternoon meal, the final touches were being given to the decoration in the halls and gardens.

"I wager feasts in the Greenwood are far different from our Noldorin affairs," said Glorfindel with a smirk as he watched the fire pits being prepared in the gardens outside.

"If your 'Noldorin affairs' are full of protocol and uncomfortable clothing, subdued and lordly, with flighty dancing and subtle flirting - then yes, you are right," said Legolas brashly as he ate.

Thranduil rolled his eyes before turning to Glorfindel, avidly awaiting his retort.

"Well, that is a rather accurate rendering of a Noldorin feast but – " he added with dramatic effect, "add a Gondolin lord to the mix, a mad Peredhel such as Elrohir here, for example, and the humble genius of Lindir the Bard, and the results can be surprisingly … _unexpected_," he said, watching Legolas for his comeback.

The prince cocked an eyebrow and then smiled.

"That sounds more interesting, I admit. Father, you must send me on some such mission to Imladris, preferably when there is an impending feast, I must document what Lord Glorfindel says."

"Oh, rest assured I would think long on it – I do not wish for any diplomatic incidents, my son," said Thranduil lightly, to which the rest of the table chuckled.

"Now then," declared the king as he stood. "Tonight, we will feast and celebrate. I suggest you rest, for you Noldo will need your strength! he said, drawn himself now into the good-natured Silvan vs. Noldo banter.

With a smirk, the Sindarin monarch left the table, leaving a thoroughly surprised group of elves behind him.

….

Later that day, Legolas lay sprawled out on the lawns behind the main courtyard, sheltered from the hustle and bustle of the Greenwood's main pathways.

With him, sat Elrohir and a pensive Lindir, who stared off into the distance, far, far away from the conversation the two friends maintained.

"Lindir," began Legolas.

"Lindir!" he called again.

Lindir's head snapped back to the prince and his high cheeks colored slightly.

"Forgive me, I was – musing," he said quite unnecessarily.

"Aye, we know. Tell me, Lindir. Do my warriors still trouble you?" asked Legolas with concern.

"Nay, they mostly leave me be – 'tis my own folk that have taken it upon themselves to flummox me…"

"Galanor! He is a fool, Legolas, I warned him," said Elrohir angrily.

"I feel sorry for him, my Lord," said Lindir. "He has no other past time, it seems, no other way of impressing his friends, no other skills with which to earn their respect."

Legolas listening and was duly impressed with the bard's intelligence and powers of observation.

"You are a bag of surprises, master Bard," said Legolas.

"That he is, Legolas" said Elrohir knowingly, "that he is… but come! He said with a flourish as he stood. "Tonight we feast, and young lords must deck themselves out to the utmost of their abilities – there are ladies to seduce, and countless bottles of fine wine to be tasted."

And so Legolas and Elrohir left with a friendly nod at the bard, and as for Lindir, he simply smiled. He did not need Galanor, or the crude Silvan warriors' approval. All he needed were those simple words of encouragement, recognition of his art.

He was motivated and inspired, and tonight, he would tell the Greenwood his new tale…


	11. Epilogue

Author's note:

This is just a little epilogue to finish the story of the Wild and the Wise. I would like to thank all of those who took the time to review and hence make this experience worthwhile. I sincerely hope to have entertained you, to have provoked thought on the question of diversity, and to have stimulated in some way, your avid minds.

Epilogue

The Great Hall was decorated for celebration and feasting, the citizens and warriors of the Greenwood had dressed in their finest clothing, musicians sat ready to delight them all with their folk and their lore.

Luscious food and fine wines sat upon intricately decorated tables that spread almost the entire length of the room, and a thousand candles cast a bright, orange light that set glass to glinting, and metal to shimmering and yet, ….. _hundreds_ of elves graced Thranduil's halls this night and still …. still there was silence, save for the wistful yet powerful voice of Lindir the bard.

He stood upon the raised stage, but a fiddler and a flute player sitting behind him, his own lyre hugged to his chest as he told his tale.

Thranduil sat transfixed, as did Legolas, their blue eyes watery and unblinking as they listened, and remembered.

Elrond smiled and Glorfindel listened and Elrohir, Elrohir wept silently, for the face of his own mother had come to his mind's eye and would not leave it.

A sad melody echoed around the room. The fiddle, the flute and the lyre – in perfect harmony, heartfelt notes that vibrated upon their strings, that flowed upon the air in a tune so delicate and yet so powerful, there was no longer a dry eye to be had in the halls of feasting.

And then the final verse had come and Lindir concluded his tale, following it with another repetition of the haunting chorus which, even after they had finished playing and had sat upon their stools in humble expectation – silence prevailed…

Elrond wondered if Lindir had taken too big a risk, for the loss of Greenwood's queen had been traumatic indeed, and for one of the Noldor to come along and sing of it – he was not at all sure of the Silvan's reaction to it, let alone Thranduil's.

The silence drew out until it became uncomfortable, and someone sniffled.

It was Legolas who stood then, and although he could not clap, he held out his arm, signaling to the Noldorin bard upon the stage.

It was all it took for the entire room to explode in joy as they clapped and clapped, and called out to the musician, or poet, or whatever he was for they surely could not tell.

Lindir stood tentatively, his eyes wide, for seldom had he been applauded so vigorously. It was as if he had composed his ode amidst a strange shroud of privacy, as if it had been for himself that he scribbled those words, inspired by the face of one that had so captivated him. Only now, with the ongoing cheers and woops, did the mist dissipate, and he took stock of just what he had created.

Slowly, he rose from his seat and bowed, his eyes slipping towards the king for a moment, and then to the prince. He had moved them, it seemed, and his own head was still sitting firmly upon his shoulders. It was a good sign, he resolved, and a smile began to blossom on his lovely face.

He was weak in body and squeamish of all things creepy-crawly. He was not skilled in social interaction but this – this one thing he did well – he was a bard, a _Noldorin_ bard, and he had created a work of art; Lay for a Greenwood Queen would be written in the next generation of poems, etched upon paper and read by those that had never ventured to the forest, had never met a Silvan, never would; but they would _dream_ … yes.

Sitting once more, the lords dried their eyes and smiled at themselves for their maudlin ways. Elrohir blew his nose scandalously and Legolas chuckled, causing the rest of them to laugh. It eased the moment and brought them all back down to the solid ground once more.

"It was beautiful," said Legolas. "I do not know how he knows the things he does, for there is nothing written of such things…" he mused out loud.

"Indeed," said Thranduil, one hand resting upon his strong chin. "It is a marvel indeed. He has not interacted at all it would seem. Perhaps it is just his imagination, and sheer coincidence," concluded the king.

"Nay, that is not it, my King," said Glorfindel with a knowing smile. "I came across Lindir some days ago. He stood transfixed, unaware even of my approach. He stood there, his body poised before a portrait in the less populated areas of the fortress…I say his body, for his mind was absent, as if it had flown away, into the work of art, to become a part of it – to _understand_ it…"

"Can he do that?" asked Legolas in amazement.

"Oh yes," said Elrond proudly. Not in vane, is Lindir the master bard of the Noldo, Legolas. There is much more to him than meets the eye…" he added enigmatically.

"Aye, aye I see that," replied Legolas, into the air almost, for his eyes searched for the bard now, lost in a sea of well-wishers and admirers.

…..

Music still played, but not within the halls, for many of the lords had retired for the evening. It was outside where the festivities continued, amongst the trees where the Silvan and Avari were more at home, and where Legolas now sat with Elrohir, Glorfindel, Benar and Doran.

"The first time you and I sat under the trees was in Imladris. We were drunk and reminiscent – I remember very little else…" said Elrohir as he sipped on his wine.

Glorfindel snorted, "_I_ remember, dragging you to your rooms for your legs were of gelatin and your brain was… dysfunctional…"

Benar and Doran guffawed to that and Legolas smiled at the memory, for he had not been far behind his friend.

"Strange, how far we have come, do you not think" said Legolas as his eyes stared off into something only he could see, and no one could say who he spoke to.

"We have all been arrogant and chauvinistic, proud to a fault, patriotic to the point of injustice, prejudiced even…"

Silence fell upon the small gathering as Legolas mused out loud, for he was right, they had _all _been at fault.

"And yet when empathy comes into play," he continued, his eyes focusing for a moment upon Elrohir, and then upon Glorfindel, "perspective changes, and where once there was effrontery, there is now curiosity, and instead of provocation there are questions. It takes wisdom to overcome the superficial, and it takes a kind of natural wildness to dare do it. This is what we have taught each other" he said with a smile as he sipped upon his wine, "you Noldor have brought your wisdom, and we Silvan and Avari, have mixed it with openness of spirit, and natural curiosity – _you_," he signaled to Glorfindel and Elrohir, "call it wildness, and perhaps it is, but the one without the other would not have worked – we could never have understood each other as we now do."

After a moment of silent introspection, it was Elrohir who spoke.

"And glad I am of it, for I have gained the best of friends," he said with a smile and a salute with his glass, to which Legolas, Benar and Doran grinned back.

It was Glorfindel though, whose thoughts put it all into perspective.

"It takes wisdom to overcome, and daring to see it done…"

…

All too soon, it was time for the Noldo to return to their own haven across the mountains, and heart-felt goodbyes had been made, with promises to return soon.

Lindir sat upon his white mare, a serene smile upon his face and a crown of spring flowers upon his blond locks, and even now, the people would wave goodbye and seal it with a wild flower the bard now collected in the folds of his cape.

Galanor watched, his face blank, his black eye no doubt smarting, for the warriors of the Greenwood had their own justice, as Galanor had promptly discovered when he had been caught antagonizing Mirkwood's newly found hero.

Elrond too, was praised, for he had returned to them their warrior prince. He was no longer the imperious Lord Elrond Peredhel, he was Elrond the master healer, ally to the king of the forests.

Glorfindel, however, remained what he had always been to this warrior society. The greatest warrior elvendom had ever known, now friend of their prince, who would surely be his successor.

And then there was Elrohir, the brother Legolas had never had. They had endured under hardship, had sacrificed themselves for the good of the other. Their story had finally transcended and the people spoke of a legendary friendship, one that perhaps Lindir the Bard would one day write about.

And thus this story is concluded, the tale of the Wild and the Wise, for the one without the other, has no meaning, and yet together – great things would be achieved.

THE END


End file.
